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COLLECTED POEMS 

AND 

THE WINDOW OF SOULS 

BY 

Henry E. Harman, Litt. D. 

AUTHOR OF 

DREAMS OF YESTERDAY GATES OF TWILIGHT 

IN LOVES DOMAIN A BAR OF SONG 



APOLOGIA 

From the passionate mouth 

Of my mother, The South, 

I heard these songs I bring to you; 

But her flute-like tone 

Alas! is gone, 
So Iv'e had to sing them over anew : 
Yet fortunate notes have eome to me 
If I sing one song in the mother key. 



The State Company 

publishers and booksellers 

columbia, s. c. 






Copyrighted, 1922 
by 3. E. Harman 



DEC -1 '22 

C1A692189 



A FOREWORD 

I have put into this little book of verse the soul- 
work of ten years; the very joy of living. 

These poems have been written in the idle moments 
of a very busy period, caught, as it were, from the 
spirit of inspiration which would come unheralded, 
amid the almost incessant cares of a business career — 
a career which has left scant opportunity for dream- 
ing. 

But the world is so full of beautiful things and 
life itself is such a wonderful revelation of interest 
and beauty that these thoughts of the ideal could 
not be surpressed. And, lacking in thought and artis- 
tic finish, as these lines are, they, nevertheless, echo 
the cry of a soul in full accord and in love with 
God's marvelous plan of light and shade, sound and 
silence, grief and joy and the pictured glory of Na- 
ture's world, and the finer chords of feeling and 
sympathy which beat in every human heart. 

All Nature is one great poem; the changing season, 
the, death of flowers and their resurrection, the gift 
of the ripened fields of wheat and corn, the bird life 
in wood and meadow, their nesting and domestic 
activities, the varied color of blossoms, the stern 
silence of great forests, the glory of a cloudless sum- 
mer day, the wonder of storms, rain, snow, frost 
and wind, the surly restlessness of the sea, the op- 
pressive mystery of night and the matchless strength 
which comes with each fresh dawn. 

But a greater poem than all these is the human 
soul — that unclassified part of our nature whose long- 
ings go out from the lowest depths of life to the high- 
est part of the unseen hereafter. We can study and 



classify all forms of Nature and, in a way, understand 
her moods and vagaries. But the human soul remains 
now, as always in the past, an unsolved thing — save 
that we identify it as the god-part in man, our heri- 
tage of immortality. Every soul has its own little 
closet, in which are kept its broken idols, its tear- 
stained toys and pictures of faces which are still 
worshipped. It is a pathetic little place, this holy of 
holies, to which one goes to think, to pay reverence, 
or to drink from the cup which once contained life's 
choicest wine. Every face on the street has its story. 
Each has its little tragedies, its hopes, its longings, 
its aspirations. How could humanity be else than 
one great poem, full of all that is tender, pathetic 
and beautiful. 

Out of a sympathy with, and a study of, these 
phases of nature and life these unpretentious songs 
have been sung. They are full of imperfections and 
lack that finer finish which more leisure in writing 
them could have given. And yet, no matter how well 
the poet's work may be done, how lofty the art he 
may put in his lines, the result is always a disappoint- 
ment. One hears the divine music, but human lim- 
itatons deny the ability to transcribe the melody 
which fills the soul. Our language is rich in words 
and fine expressions, but seems poor when we try to 
tell in human words a music which is divine. The 
artist, or the poet, can only do his best and leave his 
work to humanity as an echo of the divine things 
his innermost soul has heard and seen. 

So I give to the reader these simple songs in the 
hope that he may catch and feel some of the inspira- 
tion which came to me in writing them. If this be 
accomplished even their imperfections will disappear, 
and the making of this little book will have served 
its purpose. 



CONTENTS 

Love Songs 7 

Songs of the Sea 53 

Poems of Nature 85 

Wide, Sweet World of Memory 131 

Miscellaneous Poems 165 

The Window of Souls — 

Beyond the Eeach of Pride . . . .216 

Magdalene 253 

After Many Years i 273 



LOVE SONGS 

When lights are lowered in the hall, if we 
Into the hidden future's face could see 
And know that hut a little span remains, 
How tender would the good-night kisses be! 



MY SONG AND I 

My song and I, when April's all a-quiver, 
Fare forth to find some shy, untrodden place, 
Often along the quiet, dreaming river, 
With Spring's new glory fresh upon our face: — 

Fair fields below, above, the bluest sky 

As we go forth, my song and I. 

Sometimes we meet a beggar on the way 
Needy of alms in plenteous world like this, 
And forth to him our scanty coins we pay 
And then behold the space is filled with bliss 

Adown the vale and up to yonder sky 

As we fare forth, my song and I. 

Somehow, the tulip burns a deeper red, 
The rose has ' shyer sweetness in its face : — 
I feel a deeper blessing rest upon my head 
And more of God and Joy in every place: 

Wher'er our path may lead, both low and high 

As we go forth, my song and I. 

When twilight leans from the blue and slips 
Its nameless glow upon the sunset there, 
The face of Gladness lifts her ruddy lips 
For us to kiss — Ah ! face surpassing fair ! 

God's glory seems forever passing by 

As we go forth, my song and I. 



YOUR ABSENCE 

The cherry trees have bloomed again since last you 

went away 
But I am weary and have missed your presence just 

as they ; 
I walk among our garden things and tell them you'll 

return, 
Though, as I softly lisp your name, the words with 

sorrow burn. 

The daffodils came back on time, with cups all full 

of gold, 
Yet did not bring the thrill of joy they brought in 

days of old, 
And well I know, along the hedge, where they are 

wont to grow, 
They miss the step and welcome smile of one who 

loves them so. 

Our mocking-bird is singing now along the wild 

rose lane, 
And busy thrush is singing too, but in a minor strain ; 
I did not know how much your voice was woven in 

each lay 
Of every blessed bird of ours, until you went away. 

I wish for words as many as leaves upon the trees 
And words as sweet as meadow blooms that lure the 

crafty bees 
That I could tell you, o'er the miles that separate us 

far, 
How all the glories of the Spring are asking where 

you are. 



10. 



WE GEOW NOT OLD 

I 

We grow not old. We are but children yet 
Even when Time her whitened crown has sown; 
We suffer tense — then quickly we forget, 
Barter the now for future joy unknown. 

II 

I've lived, I've loved, I've suffered; these have made 
Time's little span from April's spring to spring ; 
I've staked and won; I've staked and lost and paid, 
And with it all life's such a blessed thing. 

Ill 

We grow old : While winds of Age are blowing 
We build new walls, where castles stood before; 
With Hope we go, the seeds of joy be-so wing, 
As if we stood at Life's unopened door. 



11 



WAY DOWN IN CAEOLINE 

If I were king or seraph 

Secure upon a throne, 
With all the world could give me, 

These gladly I'd disown, 
If Time would change to other days, 

Where childhood's memories twine, 
And you and I could love once more 

Way down in Caroline ! 

Perhaps 'twas not so passioned 

As that of later years, 
So strongly made and fashioned 

That filled the soul with tears; 
But it was true and tender 

As leaves on jasmine vine, 
When you and I were lovers, 

Way down in Caroline ! 

The years have crowded thick and fast — 

The hand of care has left its trace, 
And many a shadow of the past 

Has marred the lines of childhood's face. 
Yet these can never fade nor dim 

The tender thoughts that yet entwine 
Our hearts, when love first sang his hymn 

Way down in Caroline. 

Clear shines the sun — and twilight calls — 

With many a tender mystery, 
And somehow plenteous blessings fall 

Upon life's later road for me; 
But, ah ! I'd give them, one by one, 

If childhood's sun once more would shine 
And you and I could love once more — 
Once more, in Caroline ! 

Way down in Caroline. 
12 



THE KUBAIYAT AND YOU 

I 

Today I found old Omar's song you sent 
Me years and years ago, with many a burning line 
Marked by your hand ; — Your love and his were blent 
From page to page. A new joy seemed to shine 
From Persian singer, dawning all anew 
From out the sweet, dead years, because of you. 

II 

Once more the glamor of the faded years shone out 
From that Utopian land in which I dreamed 
And whence your creed of gladness drove all doubt; 
Yet all the years that since have intervened 

Have left no cloud upon life's sky of blue — 
To me the Eubaiyat is still a part of you. 

WHEN SHALL WE MEET 

The day when we shall meet 
Long spent desire will blossom into flame, 
Old dreamings wake at whisper of your name 
At coming of your feet. 

The days when we shall meet 
Full measured joy, somehow, will come to me; 
Of all within the gift of Destiny 
I shall not ask for more ; the melody 
Of love will be complete. 



13 



DREAMS OF YOU 

Somehow I see you in the wildwood places 
Where Nature's pictured canopies unfold 
The glory of the blossoms' upturned faces, 
Where sylvan silences a tryst unfold 

And where we meet beneath the oaken shade 
As Love's own hand upon our heads is laid. 

Out on the hills, with summer sunlight gleaming 
You seem to walk beside me where I go — 
When all my little world is filled with dreaming 
I hear your whisper in the breeze that blow: 

Then by the brook that falls o'er rocky stair 
I pause and find you still beside me there. 

But most of all, when Day his dream-book closes 
And all the West with gold is set afire, 
Somehow your pulsing hand in mine reposes 
Then all my soul is rent with old desire: 

And as the night bestars her arch of blue 
Sleep comes to bless me with new dreams of you. 

DAY AND NIGHT 

Through all the splendor of the day 
Men, hand in hand, with Virtue went; 
While Sin alone betook his way 
With grief and discontent. 

But when the lights of day went out, 
And lights of night came on, 
Men walked the streets with Sin about 
While Virtue walked alone. 



14 



BECAUSE HE CARRIED LOVE WITHIN HIS 
HEAET 

Where'er he went the gayest birds would sing: 
Somehow the clouds were never in his sky, 

Along his way the rarest flowers would spring, 
Life was a Song to him with ne'er a sigh. 

All day he toiled, from dawn to sable night, 
But whistled as he worked along the way, 

And people wondered how one toiler might 
Winnow such gladness from each busy day. 

None ever guessed even half the joy he knew, 
Nor yet how well he played life's little part ; 

To him the skies above were ever blue 

Because he carried love within his heart. 

FOR LOVE'S RETURNING 

I 

I keep the sanded walks all swept and trim. 
Along whose edge the budding roses wait — 
Listening to hear the quickened step of him 
Pass hitherward through yonder open gate. 

II 

Within my heart the fires of fancy burn! 
And Song is busy with his minstrelsy. 
Expectant, listening! How I wish and yearn, 
Blessing the day when he shall come to me! 

Ill 

O Life ! O Love ! O laggard days that wait — 
How slow ye go — and how my eyelids burn 
With watching for his presence at the gate! 
O Life ! O Love ! O blessed Love, return ! 

15 



WITH YOU— WHERE YOU AKE 

Where'er your blessed feet shall turn 
To whispered footfalls of the night, 
The candles there for me shall burn- 
Shall burn a holier light 
To guide me from the noisy street 
To one still room where two shall meet. 

Though miles between us intervene 
These unto Love can be no bar: 
Through mist of night your face serene 
Looks up to mine— just as you are; 
So when the twilight candles burn 
We both toward one doorway turn. 

And as you sit within the glow 
Where ashen embers blaze and flare 
Somehow, I stretch my arms to know 
And feel, that you are there, 
For ne'er the nightfall lights its star 
But I am with you— where you are. 

EOSE OF MY GARDEN 

Out in the glow of a summer morn, 
Out where the mists of the gray dawn lay, 
A rose in my beautiful garden was born 
And lived its life through one sweet day: 
The fair dawn passed with no one to see 
This beautiful rose of the morn, save me. 

Into my life, when the youth-spell kept 
Its mystery dreams of the untried years 
The passionate love of a woman swept 
And held me fast as one who hears 
A siren's call, yet no one knew 
The joy she brought to my soul, save you. 

16 



THE NOVICE 

I 

How much of penance must I pay to earn my place 

in Paradise! 
How far from duty's road may stray, yet find my 
welcome in the skies: 
The world is full of passion'd things; both 

Youth and Love have called to me, 
Oh ! how the mortal round me clings, while I 
would seek eternity ! 

II 

I wonder if the stern world knows, that world which 

scoffs at things divine, 
How guilt and sin, like winter snows, blow on this 
helpless soul of mine! 
I count the beads, each one by one, then look 

across the fields of May 
Where, underneath the blessed sun , Life 
beckons where the love-lutes play. 

Ill 

I am but human, God must know how frail the novice 

soul can be, 
And when temptations come and go, alas! what is 
there left for me 
But woman's wish, by passion fired, concealed 

within a woman's heart, 
That in the bright, sweet world of Love, my 
soul could have its part! 



17 



FOE YOUR BIRTHDAY 

Strange does it seem that here in this latest summer, 
Far from our first, that sleeps where memory stays 
That still we should go, with aims that never shall 

murmur — 
Living one life — one hope — through the long sweet 

days. 

Tender and good, the measure of Time has waited, 
Through all these years, with leisure enough to woo — 
As we toiled and loved — with the toil of happiness 

sated ; 
And our souls kept young because of the work to do. 

No longer we ask if life be worth the living: 
Hence, now, we plead what measure shall yet remain 
Of golden years, through which our souls, still giving, 
Shall richer grow, like the reapers' yellow grain. 

The frost of time, whose touch the head shall whiten, 
Nor hand of years, that lines the face with care, 
Shall mar your smile; but these shall only heighten, 
For me, youth's bloom, forever planted there. 

This year comes back with the thoughts of youth 

so tender, 
That again we walk where the mountain shadows 

play— 
And, as then, I give, whatever the heart can render, 
Of love, that burns to his later, happier day. 



18 



HAGAR'S FAREWELL 

Farewell, farewell ! white tents of girlhood days, 
Of maidenhood and of that nameless vale 
Where Love first bloomed: and in whose skies 

yet sail 
The dreams of romance, which cannot avail 
Aught now for me, save like unto some toy 
With which- old Memory plays 
And in whose handling finds some scanty joy. 

Farewell, white tents, you glitter on the plain, 
Like argosies upon some tropic sea ! 
But ah! the bitterness your sight brings back 

to me: 
The birth of Love, its bloom, the agony 
Of motherhood, but most of all the pain 
When Love was scorned, and I 
Touched hands with Jealousy, 
The memory of which will never die. 

See yonder waste, Oh Ishmael, my own! 
See yonder sands where never lifts a tree, 
Or oasis to shelter you and me: 
That is our home. This, with its mystery, 
The endless plain, with heat and hunger sown, 
Is our abode. Only the stars above, 
The orient stars, so full of light and love, 
Shall compensate us: these, and liberty. 



19 



WHEN LOVE DEPAETED 

When Love went out and softly closed the door, 
Then paused to look with pathos in his eye, 
For me the noon-day sun went from the sky 
Alas, and I, 

Who had been rich — was desolate and poor! 

He kissed his hand from down the narrow lane 
That wound unto our cottage of content, 
Then slowly turned about and outward went, 
Onward intent, 

Never to cross this little path again. 

I never knew the joy his presence meant 

About this ingle nook and down the hall, 
Where I so often heard his merry call, 
Until this pall 

Of his farewell brought me my punishment. 

THE GATE 

Soft echoes from the temple bells, 
The picture of a fallen gate, 
And one who needs must wait 
Where sad-faced Memory dwells. 

She stood inside its topmost bar, 
I stood beneath the pine tree shade, 
While lutes of twilight played 
For her and evening star. 

Two roads diverging far apart, 
Our f ragil craft wrecked on the sea : 
Love's memory left for me 
This gate and broken heart. 



20 



DOGWOOD AND JASMINE 

The dogwood fringes woods with white, 
The leaves new fragrance bring 

While jasmine hangs its yellow lamps 
To light the way of Spring. 

Yet never blooms the flowers anew 

But a face comes back serene; 

The dogwood and the jasmine 

Both keep her memory green. 

WHEN YOU USED TO SING 



When twilight shadows burn to softer glowing 

And weary day with toiling is be-spent, 
When night comes on so lavishly be-sowing, 
With silver stars the sullen firmament; 
When footsteps turn toward the embers burning 

And memory twines about each cherished thing. 
Ah! how my soul is filled with nameless yearning, 
As in the past, once more to hear you sing ! 

II 

The silent halls, as in the days long ended 

Are just the same — your picture on the wall — 
Your music there, in light and darkness blended, 

No sound within — save when I hear you call: 
Soft as the stillness, where the twilight lingers 
Your words come back from memory's scented 
spring 
The ivory keys are touched by vanished fingers, 
And as of old, once more I hear you sing. 



21 



FLOWEKS OF YESTEKDAY 

The bright wistaria hangs its plumes 
Along the hedge's path of gray, 

But not with Youth's enchanged smile 

When bloomed the things of yesterday. 

The tulips burn with crimson glow 
Forecasting glories of the May — 

But ah! I turn 

And somehow, yearn, 

For blossoms of the yesterday. 

Each jonquil lifts its cup of gold 
Along the footpath's charted way, 
Yet these have not the flame of old 
When life's young world was gay. 

Ah! jonquil blooms are not the same 
As jonquils of the yesterday! 

The lilac plumes are scented still 

And wave above the sward of gray: 

Their perfumes every ingle fill; 

But, somehow, I am changed — or they, 

For these are not the kind she wore, 
The lilac plumes of yesterday. 



22 



LOVE'S LITTLE WOELD 

I 

Where the hearthstone embers smoulder 
Love's own voice is softly calling; 
On her face the lights are falling 
As the years grow old and older. 

Love's domain is small, but luring, 
One sweet face, content and smiling; 
But its' force is all beguiling 
And its strength is all enduring. 

It is she, who reads the story 
By the fireside, still and lonely 
That can make this ingle only 
All my wide, sweet world of glory. 

II 

Just one little face so tender 
Just these hands, so white and slender, 
And one heart that still remembers 
Makes my bliss, where glow the embers 
Where the hearthstone dreamings smoulder 
As the years grow old ond older. 
Ah ! but such a tiny thing 
Makes the heart forever sing: 
Life is small, I do aver, 
Just this room, old love and her. 



23 



WHAT THE MANDOLIN SAID 

Out of a Past where Mem'ry keeps 
Her cherished things and weeps 
I list — and hear, when the grate is red, 
And phantom folk in the gloaming tread 
To the words her mandolin said. 

A pine tree lifts its branches high 

In pleading to the sky: 
The yellow blooms of the jasmine vine 
Like lamps swing low and somehow twine 

About her words and heart of mine. 

Her dainty fingers touched the strings: 

Then melody of things 
Lute-like and musical and sweet 
Beneath the pine tree seemed to meet 

Where Love's own harvest was complete. 

In every note the moonlight swayed: 

At touch her fingers made 
Upon the strings old loves seemed wed 
As when one through a dream is led, 

At the words her mandolin said. 

The lute-like notes brought back again 

White spray of April rain: 
And dew-wet lilacs scent the air 
Once more, as when she blessed them there ; 

Ah! mandolin and golden hair. 



24 



YULETIDE AND YOU 



A winter's sky and stars without, 
Pale moon and memories calling 

Encompass all my world about; 
God's blessing on me falling. 

A scent of lilacs through the room, 

Like holy incense burning 
Awakens through the twilight gloom 

A lover's ardent yearning. 

Out there the wind sweeps o'er the plain; 

Within, the glowing embers; 
Love weaves about his golden chain 

The Yuletide yet remembers! 

II 

Twilight and gloom fill all the room, 
Time's prosy things receding, 

While Dreams along the hallway bloom 
And faces smile in pleading. 

As daylight dies from out the skies 
And night bestows his blessing 

I catch a gleam from Love's sweet eyes 
And feel his soft caressing. 



25 



Ill 

Somehow an angel's touch is laid 

Upon the brow of Sorrow, 
And every debt of sin is paid 

With dawning of tomorrow. 

So hang the mistletoe above 

The hallway and the landing 

That one may kiss the brow of Love 
Beside the hallway standing. 

IV 

Yuletide and you ! a sky of blue, 

Through winter's blasts are blowing, 

Old love remembers and is true 
As yonder embers glowing. 

Yuletide and you! the sirens sing 

As in the Grecian story 
And to the Christmas hearth I cling 

With you and all its glory. 

For wintry sky and stars without 

Pale moon and memories calling 

Encompass all my world about, 
God's blessing on me falling. 



26 



THE SERENADE 

Hush! thou my flute, tune soft to lowest note 

By moonlight's magic aid 
Soft as the love-song from the night bird's throat — 

Be this our serenade ! 

She listens there, behind the lattice veil, 
Brown lashed and wistful eyed — 

While outward on a sea of hope there sail 
My dream-ships glorified. 

THE PATH 

A lonely stretch of pathway leading by 
A meadow brook, and then beyond a hill, 
Unto a spot, where pines are tall and still, 
Like sentinels beneath the autum sky; 

A pathway meaningless to traveler 
Who walks its golden sands without a thrill ; 
To me this path all roadways glorify, 
Because it leads unto the home of her. 



27 



THE CLOSED DOOE 

Love knocked: Youth heard and listened, but 
Was busy with his gold that day; 
She knocked again, the door was shut, 
Then sadly turned away. 

Love knocked once more in after years, 
But Fame was calling up the height: 
With broken heart she left in tears, 
For it was almost night. 

Time bore the Youth to green old age: 

She gave him wealth and fame and more, 
But somehow life was like a cage, 
For love had closed the door. 

A SONG FOE YOU 

If, some day I should sing 

A song that burns with strange immortal fire — 

A song that wakens in men's souls desire 
For swift, uplifting wing — 

Know that each note that runs the message through 

Was Love's one thought of you ! 

If, when my work is o'er — 

The world shall say he did not live in vain, 

But soothed and softened some of life's dull pain 
Along Time's wave-swept shore — 

Know that each wreath the world may think 
my due 

All shall belong to you. 



28 



THE EOAD TO ENOKEE 

On the road to Enoree, 

Like a ribbon by the sea ! 
Far along the beachs stretching 
Like some faithful master's etching; 

Winding, twisting 

Onward listing 
To some far-off land of story, 
Full of hope and human glory; 

Like a ribbon by the sea 

Is the road to Enoree! 

Oh! the road to Enoree, 

Like some olden dream to me, 
Hurries past the forest yonder 
Where each mile seems fond and fonder 

And each turning 

Brings me yearning 
For the days now long departed 
When my darling, golden-hearted, 

Walked the golden sands with me 

On the road to Enoree. 



29 



Oh ! the road to Enoree 

Where she told her love to me, 
When the cherry trees were sifting 
Snowy petals — and the drifting 

May winds dreaming 

Saw the gleaming 
Of the words of love unspoken — 
Heard the vows, as yet unbroken! 

Ah ! the road to Enoree 

Like an Eden is to me. 

Oh ! the road to Enoree 
Like a ribbon by the sea ! 

Have you heard young love a-calling, 

Felt new glory round you falling: 
Maiden glances 
Waking fancies 

Of the new land, full of glory? 

Then you know the old, sweet story 
Of the road to Enoree 
Like a ribbon by the sea ! 



30 



CKIMSON POPPY 

Crimson poppy, bending idly in my garden by the 

wall, 
When I see you maiden footsteps from the orient 

softly fall 
And low whispers from a latticed casement seem 

to call! 

Crimson poppy from the desert, all the East in you 

is bred; 
Warmer suns have given color to your jealous, 

queenly head; 
All the passion of the tropics in your lazy smile 

is wed. 

Exiled blossom, memory-haunted, one whose soul 

can never err, 
You have taught me tenser passion, like some 

Eastern sorcerer 
And to worship, Arab-hearted, poppy crimsoned 

lips of her. 

A BAB OF SONG 

Her wistful glances swept the golden west, 

Where Day had laid to rest 
His sweet faced dreams, entrusting to the Night 

These children of the light. 

She turned about, within the dim lit room, 

Holy with twilight bloom, 
Then in the stillness played an olden tune 

From Youth's forgotten June. 

Without I listened to the sounds that fell 

Like magic- woven spell; 
And some one opened wide the palace gates 
Where Love, the Master, waits. 

31 



LOVE'S CAPTIVITY 

Ah! Since you came and took your place within 
The garden of my soul, new fiow'rs have grown 
In wild luxuriance there; and these have blown 
Their perfume all about. Your smile has been, 
Dear one, like olden wine, and life to me 
Instead, with freedom sown, 
Is hedged about with Love's captivity. 

Though I be slave I love my serfdom well. 
The stronger chains you forge about my will 
Are welcome, for they hold me close and still, 
Near to the holy place where you must dwell. 
Take all my dream of other years than this 
And these upon the restless waters strew: 
I want but this: my servitude for you. 
Behold my lips are passioned for your kiss. 

I have known freedom, but how dull now seem 
Those years of liberty, before you came. 
I even knew the petted touch of fame, 
But these dissolve, like some forgotten dream 
Before the glory which your love has brought, 
And these strong chains your little hands have 
wrought. 



32 



LOVE'S MYSTERY 
I 

I met you once in Egypt old 

Along the slow Nile's trail, 

Where clouds above, white fold on fold, 

Like dream ships seemed to sail: 

Your white arms stretched to welcome me 

And to your bosom hold 

As salt winds from the mystic sea 

Kissed us, in Egypt old. 

II 

We passed our radiant years of youth 
Where palm leaves wave and quiver 
Searching to find Love's hidden truth 
Beside the ancient river: 

But when life's thread of joy was spun — 

Life's tales of Love been told 

We passed — as sets the orient sun 

And slept in Egypt old. 

Ill 

A thousand years we dreamed of things 
'That Love had waked on earth — 
A thousand years each April's springs 
Gave unto us new birth, 

Until, within this later age, 
Upon this western shore 
We woke, with Time's old heritage 
To solve Love's truth once more. 



33 



FOE YOU 

Each Spring comes back with its brighter skies 
That shelter the vale with a deeper blue, 
But they bring not back your tender eyes, 
Nor the love of you. 

Noon walks the vale like a mystical king 
Where the wild, sweet blossoms plead and woo, 
But alas ! I miss this one sweet thing — 
Just the sight of you. 

The white shore, sanded and wave-wrapped, lies 
Where once there echoed the steps of two: 
Today but the phantoms of hope arise 
As I pray for you. 

The night bird calls to its nestling own 
From yonder fragrant pine and yew, 
While I stretch my arms in grief, alone, 
For the arms of you. 

LIFE 

I've heard the blue-bird sing: 

I've walked life's rosy path of spring — 

The golden wealth of summer's sheen 

My wistful eyes have seen: — 

And now the autumn's tint and glow 

Completes the page. Ah! friend, I know 

Life is a blessed thing. 



34 



BECAUSE I WALK WITH YOU 

The sunshine never falls so clear, 
The Summer sky ne'er half so blue, 

Nor sight of daisies yet so dear 
As when I walk with you. 

The glow that blazens all the West 
When night distills the twilight dew, 

Beckons that life for me is blest, 
Because I walk with you. 

Nor what befalls! On land or sea 
My fate is safe if love be true — 

Joy lifts the golden cup for me, 
Since yet I walk with you. 

DEAR STARS, I ENVY YOU 

Dear stars, that shine within the wanton blue 
Of Maytime's glory, how I envy you, 
Because you look from out your lofty height 
Upon her path and there behold the sight 
Of her dear form, passing adown the way, 
All perfumed by the envious blooms of May — 
While I must wait and wish to see her eyes, 
Which you can look at from your bonny skies, 
And I, in exile, longing for her smile, 
Which blesses you each twilight's little while. 
Dear stars, so safe within yon wanton blue, 
Because you see her, how I envy you! 



35 



OUR HOUSE OF DEEAMS 

Almost a score of years, 
'Mid smiles and tears, 

We'we builded, you and I, our house of dreams, 
And still through all the days 
Along the stony ways 

Love's halo gleams. 

Sometimes the day was bright ; 
Sometimes a Winter light 

Fell where we toiled slow with willing hands; 
But Love was always there, 
A gleam of light to spare 

From Promised Lands. 

We've seen the structure tall 
In hopeless ruin fall 

And Hope's fair star shine out with feeble gleams : 
But Love, Sweetheart, is true 
As we begin anew 

Our house of dreams. 



m 



THE NUN 

This cloister shade 

For pious maid 

Is soothing to a heart so torn, 

And all the marble hallways worn 

Are sacred : and the light of morn 

Falls sweet where one is prone to pray, 

Within the breaking of the day; 

The ^ery air is perfume laid 

To saddened heart of cloister maid. 

On bended knee 
She reads her plea 
To some fair god far, far away, 
Amid the half born light of day : 
For as one kneels so must one pray, 
And in the dusky light of morn, 
To her some sacred joy is born; 
But in the dusk she cannot see 
What was the burden of her plea. 

Somehow to her 

There was the whirr 

Of that old world she used to know, 

And in her woman heart the glow 

Of Love, which one time thrilled her so: 

Then in the dusk she seemed to see 

The face of him who used to be 

The wide sweet world, with all its stir, 

The first and only world to her. 



37 



A PALACE IN THE PINES 

Hidden among the whispering pines I found, 

Far from the haunts of man, 
A lowly cot, where silence abound, 
Save fluted notes of Pan. 

Here, all day long, his reed beguiled the leaves 

Which tangle overhead, 
Like phantom song some lonely Echo weaves 

For Dryads when they wed. 

But every note that waked the meadows far 

Was soothed by Love's caress, 
And rose, like incense, to each* waiting star, 

Its gladness to confess. 

Day wore her smile: the sunbeams flooded all 

The wooded aisles with light ; 
Then Silence brooded, save where night-birds call 

Aroused the sylvan Night. 

Within the cot lean Poverty was guest 

And cast his shadow there; 
But those who passed him, in and out, were bless'd, 

For Love made all things Fair. 

The scanty bread and newly vintaged wine 

By unseen hand increas'd, 
For sweet Content her benedictions twine 

Where Love sits at the feast. 



38 



WHEN LEIDA PASSES BY 

I stand upon a corner where 

There bends a crowded street; 

I watch the drifting throngs go on 

Who pass, but never meet; 

The wintry wind about me blows, 

No sun is in the sky 

Yet Springtime in my bosom glows 

For Leida passes by. 

Somehow, the blossoms which she wore 

When Youth was fresh and fair 

Bloom as they did in days of yore 

And scent the frosty air; 

For, Love the Master, never sleeps, 

Nor fails to satisfy 

My soul from out the long, lost years 

When Leida passes by. 

Ah! crimson tulips, bloom again 
From out the wreck of years, 
Dear roses, damp with April rain, 
Come back, through mist of tears: 
The tumult fills the busy street, 
Both those who smile and sigh; 
Of all, one memoried form I meet, 
Tis Leida passing by. 



39 



FIEST-LOVE 

"What becomes of all first-loves of the ages?" 

Your own heart answers, but the secret keeping; 
Your own soul yet, somehow, can feel the thrill 
That opened wide a garner, new for reaping, 
But ere the harvest, Hope was dead and still. 

You keep it locked, close-sealed from other's knowing, 
A toy with which your memory often plays: — 
You then go forth the seeds of joy be-sowing 
And dream alas ! of first-love's golden days. 

This memory stays through life unto its ending, 
Nor wealth, nor power can rob it of its glow; 
And if we live beyond the grave's extending 
That spark will burn where'er your footsteps go. 

Sometimes a face will bless your mid-night dreaming, 
Or wistful eyes look through the dusk and gloom, 
Then lo ! the past comes back with lost Hopes teeming 
And life's first-love will gladden all the room. 



40 



EOMANCE OF GOLF 

In the stilled, sweet calm of an idle day 

Beneath a late September sun 

We haste, the ancient game to play, 

Ere yet the afternoon is done : 

With ' sun aslant in a golden sea 

Her phantom form fares forth with me. 

Somehow, the glory of the sky, 

Nor Summer clouds, like castles fair, 

Can hold the earnest, wistful eye 

Of me — although, I do declare, 

I watch the grass from tee to tee 
As her fair feet trudge on with me. 

At number two a pine tree, tall, 

Is shrine for gladdened mocking bird, 

And in each note is love's old call 

Which we together oft have heard: 
Oh ! how I bless this aged tree 
Because she listens there with me! 

The Fairies haunt the lake and isle, 
A twilight mist bends soft and low — 
The Fairies hang their lamps and smile 
As onward, onward, forth we go; 

The Fireflies light their lamps to see 
As o'er the bridge she walks with me. 

The day is o'er — the game is done, 
But Memory stays — that blessed thing — 
Good-night, good-night, my friendly sun, 
E'en yet I hear the pine bird sing; 

For o'er the greens, from tee to tee, 
My phantom love has walked with me. 



41 



LOVE STANDS AT THE DOOR 

Why should I fret, if by the dark o'ertaken 
While some beloved task is left undone; 
Why should I weep, if some old creed be shaken 
And faith be lost, ere set of yonder sun; 

Let night come on, with wind and rain to weep 
Out of the day's dull wreck some joy I'll keep. 

Why should I fret when rose turns from the dew 
Its placid face — not caring for the glow 
Which Love and Light could give; let me undo 
The spinners tangle, with so little show 

As if no dreams of hope had ere been spun 
Within an anxious soul undone — undone. 

Why should I try to sing when listless ears 
Are closed to notes that thrilled with old desire; 
Better to conjure doubt and woo old fears 
That haunt within and dampened love's red fire: 
Better, alas ! no dreams at all could wake 
Within a heart now left to ache, to ache. 

Why should I fret if Fate shall choose to be 

Averse to all my planning for the day: 

Long are the years that make eternity 

And one dull night ends but a single day: 

Life has its hopes to build in plenteous store 
While Love stands smiling at the open door. 



42 



WHERE LOVE IS KING 

How rarest blossoms by the roadway spring! 
How do the barren wilds with music ring! 

How every night new stars of splendor show 
Within the vaulted blue, where love is king! 

Love knows no castle ; the poorest cottage bare 
Of all that makes life easiest and fair, 

He enters with such royal pomp and pride 
As if a palace splendor waited there. 

The grave may bring defeat and hopeless shame, 
E'en innocence may lose a cherished name, 

But while we walk this side the silent tomb, 
Nothing can daunt the soul where love's aflame. 

BUT THESE REMAIN 

After the clamorous tumult. — After the noisy shout 
Of restless morn and noontide's busy street, 
After the human passions, raging within and out 
At the zenith hour, when sin and virtue meet, 

Lo ! comes the peace of twilight's mystic glow 
To soothe the soul, ere the gaudy day shall go ! 

After the human play — After the hurts and ills; — 
After the broken hearts and the words we harshly 

said ; 
After the envy smile and passion's lofty thrills, 
After this little thing called Life is laid among the 

dead 
God's patient stars remain above, like the 

priests within the sky 
To watch those other caravans, like us, go 

passing by. 



43 



THE DANCER 

Rythm figure and rythm of smile, 

Rythm in glance of eyes so blue, 

They beckon and call and whisper the while 

Dark-lidded stars that look me through! 

Figure so lithe, the sculptor weeps 
And hair of gold which the sun defies, 
Motion of love, which somehow keeps 
A nameless longing within my eyes. 

Out of the East, ere Egypt's birth 
You came from an age, which no one knows, 
For you are the mother of joy and mirth 
You are sister, too, of the scented rose. 

Dance yet again, with your sandled feet, 
Dance on, with arms so bare and free, 
Look hither, until our blue eyes meet, 
Dance on, dance, on in the heart of me! 



44 



A SONG— MY CAROLINE 

Sweet are the years that yonder lie 

Against a past — to me divine — 

When we went forth, beneath Love's sky 

Just you and I, dear Caroline! 

To-night my holiest thoughts incline 
To then — and you — my Caroline. 

A silent roadway leads me on 

Where fading sun rays softly shine 

Up to the door — whence she has gone — 

Forever gone, my Caroline, 

Forever gone, forever mine; 

Life's one sweet thing, dear Caroline. 

Night shadows fall on land and sea 

The little stars to west incline ; 

These leave a darkened world to me 

And memories of my Caroline, 
Only this holiest thing is mine 
The love of you, my Caroline. 



45 



WHEN LOVE WAS YOUNG 



I do recall, some thousand years, or more, ago, 
I met you first upon a Grecian isle — 
The world was young, Time's morning in its glow 
And yet, eclipsing all, was your sweet smile. 

In Egypt's desert, piling stone on stone, 
Some monarch toiled to build his monument 
The Pyramids have stood as age on age has flown 
Yet, somehow, with it all your face is blent. 

From marble slab we saw the master Greek 
Carve out his god, with measured stroke and slow; 
Then looking eastward saw Ulysses seek 
The favored isles no mortal man must know. 

Ah! blessed years, when Earth was in its dawn 
When first my eyes beheld your dimpled smile 
Ah ! aged years that since have slowly flown 
When first I loved you on a Grecian isle. 

II 

The world was young and Love was young and young 

alike were we 
Since then the world has grown so old Time seems 

Eternity 
And while we slept through age on age it seems a 

little while 
Since first we met in Time's fresh Dawn, upon a 

Grecian isle. 



46 



THE SIGHT OF YOU 

Come sit with me, love, while the shades grow longer 
Out here in the glow of the afternoon sun; 
The touch of your hand makes my heart grow fonder 
Of all that is good when the day is done ! 

The cry of the street, with its tumult and laughter 
These deaden the soul when the noon runs high; 
While the noise of Gain and Mammon, the master, 
Shut out from the heart what love would buy. 

In the world's swift mart, where Profit is calling, 
No heartsease blooms by the hardened road, ■ 
But on each head new grief is falling 
And each must bear his heavier load. 

But here, where the magical twilight lingers 
And star-craft sail in the far-off blue, 
I feel the clasp of your dainty fingers 
And find my peace at the sight of you. 

LOVE IS THE SAME 

Love rules the world complete, 
Be it for good or wrong, 
His voice is but the same 
In sigh or song. 

The minstrel serenade 
From darkened village street, 
Wafted to listening maid, 
Is love complete. 

If it be kingly breast 
Or peasant heart aflame, 
Heaven touches each alike; 
Love is the same. 
47 



WISDOM AND LOVE 

Old Wisdom said to Love: 

"Now come along with me today, 

Come, let us gleam from history's storied page 

The greater deeds of warrior and sage; 

Glean from these musty tomes the wealth of man 

By barter, trade and caravan 

And when we've garnered all the knowledge that 
we can 

If there be time, perhaps, a little play." 

But Love, the wise 

Looking from wistful eyes, 
Said thus : "Oh ! Wisdom, I would roam about 
To-day among the meadow-lands of Doubt 

Where bend blue Summer skies: 

For on a day like this 

One's looking for a kiss 

And I, perchance, may see 

Some maid of mystery, 

Some maiden with a sigh, 

Lonesome of heart as I; 
So, Wisdom, let me play 
Just for this little day: 
Perhaps, in school to-morrow, 
We two may study sorrow." 



48 



WHEN DAYLIGHT BREAKS 

When daylight breaks 

Across the sky 

And streaks of gold 

The day unfold, 
When darkness fades in mellow light 
And daytime angels chase the night, 
Then all my peaceful dreaming wakes 
To love thee more when daylight breaks. 

When daylight breaks 

In dusky hue, 
To kindle diamonds 
In the dew, 
And shadows in the valley deep 
Play hide and seek, and star beams peep 
With radiance waned, an offering wakes 
To thee, my love, when daylight breaks. 

When daylight wakes 

Across the sky, 
When starlight fades 
And moonbeams die, 
When dusky lashes catch the light 
From hovering dreams, and all the night 
Has fled, I wake to bless the fates 
For thy sweet love when daylight breaks. 

THEY CALL FOR THE BLOOD OF JESUS 

They call for the blood of Jesus up from the crowded 

ways 
Just as they called impatiently in the old Judean 

days, 
And upon the hill of Calvary each day is crucified 
Some life of spotless innocence with thieves on either 

side. 

49 



DEAR HEART OF YESTERDAY 

I could have paved your roadway with delight 
And made it sweet with all the blooms of spring — 

With happy dreams filled every blessed night 
And taught you life as such a blessed thing, 

But fate decreed for us no harvest sheaf, 

Only the toil filled days — only the Autumn grief! 

I could have filled your days with rest serene, 
I could have plucked for you the blossoms rare, 

Yet something crossed our paths and came between — 
Leaving us each to feel the noontide glare 

On separate roads, across the desert sands, 

With never a touch of lips, or clasp of hands. 

Perhaps if I could have my way with you, 
And you have yours, our wish God's plan would mar, 

Perhaps our parted love is yet more true 
And faithful, thus, to suffer as we are; 

But oh! the grief that sobs through night and day 

For touch of lips and hands so far away. 

God knows, not mine the wish, not mine the thought, 
That thus our paths should run so far apart: 

I've listened for your steps, then toiled and wrought, 
Hoping some day to hear your beating heart, 

When Fate, relaxed, should bring the harvest sheaf 

We long have wished, instead of Autumn grief. 

Till then I dare not ask to have my way, 
Dear heart of mine — dear heart of yesterday. 



50 



IF YOU BUT KNEW 

I wonder if you ever come this way 

From out the Bright Beyond, whence you have 
gone, 
If sometimes by my path you do not stray, 

Which since you went I traverse all alone. 

It seems my love and loneliness would bring 
Your gentle tread along my road some day, 

When I'm a-weary, with no heart to sing, 
And sigh for comradeship along the way. 

If you but knew how I have missed your smile, 
Your tender voice and touch of vanished hand, 

Your pity would be mine the little while 
I walk without you within the Shadow Land. 

LOVE ME TODAY 

Give me your hand, you are a man; and men are 

brave — 
So brief the time to do, so few the hours to woo, 

before the grave. 

Joys come so curt and shy, like sun from April sky, 

bedimmed by rain — 
And ere we understand the touch of love's soft hand, 

Death covers all again! 

Tomorrow's sun will rise from out the gaudy skies, 

but far away 
Our souls may be apart, so love me now, dear heart; 

love me today. 



51 



JUST BLOOMING FOE YOU 

Today in the low green meadows 

'Neath the skies of Summer hue 

I found a white-rimmed daisy 

Just blooming alone for you. 

No worship of priest or prelate 
Could equal devotion so true 

As the love of the sweet meadow daisy 
Just blooming alone for you. 

There may be creeds more perfect 

And devotion more lasting and true, 

But the simple love of the daisy 
Just blooming alone for you 

Taught me the sweetness of living 
Out there under skies so blue; 

Just shedding the fragrance of loving 
And blooming alone for you. 

And to-day in the perfumed meadow 
With its flowers of every hue 

I learned a lesson of worship 

From the daisy just blooming for 
you. 



52 



SONGS OF THE SEA 

/ long for a sight of the sea, when the daylight 
breaks; 
When the gulls, like mystery things, 
Fly seaward to try their wings; 
When the marsh and the wood arouse and the dream 
of a new day wakes. 

I long for a night by the sea, with its silence and 
waves, 

And its stars in the low-bent blue; 

Just these — and you — just you 
To ease the human unrest of a soul that craves. 



OLD SHIPS 



I always loved old docks, torn sails and weatherbeaten 
spars, 

Prows with odd names and rusting anchor chains, 
Rude sailors who have looked on eastern stars 

And made their home upon the distant mains. 

II 

Somehow the thread of Romance weaves about 
These strange old ships, which danger seems to 
court. 
And their brave crews, who roam within and out 
The wide, wide world, with sweetheart in each 
port. 



MYSTERY OF THE WAVES 

In measured break we roll, we roll 
Across the silver whitened sand, 
Where Neptune takes accustomed toll 
At meeting place of sea and land. 

A thousand leagues of white beach runs 
From Augustine to Mobile Bay 
Warmed by the light of tropic suns 
Where shade and shadows play. 



55 



In measured break we surge, we surge 
From Saragossa's outer brim, 
With strength of Herculean urge 
Yet softened as a twilight hymn. 

We carry on our crested wave 
The remnants of unfettered spars, 
Yet like the stillness of the grave 
We hide our wreckage from the stars. 

A thousand sails: that left the shore 
But ne'er returned, alas ! we know 
While home lights burn and hearts grow 

sore 
And Time drags on so slow, so slow. 

In measured tread, o'er coral strand 
Unbroken crested line we roll; 
Upon the beach's whitened sand 
We write the fate of ocean's toll. 



56 



FLOEIDA SHOEES 



The white sails fill before an urgent wind 
That blows from off some shore of verdant hue; 
God's sunlight falls where sight and vision end 
And makes' the dream of other days come true. 

Yon stunted pines bend low against the sky, 
Dwarft for an hundred years by scanty soil, 
Like eager souls, without the wings to fly — 
Held down by want and unrewarding toil. 

A day with wind keen set from Southern shores, 
A day with breakers tossed from East to West — 
A day of sea-life, which the heart adores — 
A day the soul of freedom loveth best. 

II 

Twilight off shore — near-by the mist and maze 
That come with night, and nightly moan of sea — 
Twilight on ocean's sad, mysterious ways 
That leaves its softened glow and gloom with me. 

Tall palm trees frescoed on a sky of blue — 
White gypsie clouds on vagrant errands bent: — 
My boat, the river, dreaming eyes and you, 
Behold my kingdom in a word — "content." 



57 



THE CALL OF THE SEA 

Oh! the call of the sea is in my soul and the sting 
of the brine is on my face; 

The wind is wild, with its romp and squall, and I 
see once more that leagueless space 

Which gives its freedom to wave and sky — which 
binds the feet to no one place! 

I hear the call of the lumbering waves that toss on 
the rocky shores once more, 

And I see the lilt of the white-winged gulls, fly far 
from the prison shore 

And behold ! I enter my phantom world, through 
the beach line's open door. 

Give me a day when the wind is sharp — a sky with 
its hurrying clouds about; 

When the waves break fast in caps of white, with 
many a bang and bout: 

Ah! then the soul is aglee and sings its joy in a 
merry shout ! 

There's liberty here; wide space to spare; leagues 
intervene 'twixt sea and sky; 

The soul looms big in this liberty world and fading 
hopes leap high: 

Ah! the brine is calling and I must go where the 
white-winged sea gulls fly ! 



58 



A SONG OF THE SEA 



I long for the magical sight and the mist of the sea; 
For the smell of the wind-swept brine 
And the deep, where the breakers shine, 

With the pleading grief of a lost soul's mystery. 

I long for the smooth-woven, silvery sands of the 
shore, 
With woods to the West, and the main 
Going far to the East, like a chain, 

Whose links run on to the latch of a dreamer's door. 

I long for the sheen of the afternoon sun on the 
sand, 
Smooth, white, when the tide is low, 
And the West with its gold a-glow; 
When the blessing of rest comes down, 'twixt the 
sea and the land. 

The marsh stretches far to the West with its sad 
mystery, 
Where the sentinel pines rise high 
To mark where its endings lie; 
To the East is the mist and the gloom of thy endless 
leagues, O sea ! 



59 



II 

I long for a sight of the sea, when the daylight 
breaks ; 
When the gulls, like mystery things, 
Fly seaward to try their wings; 
When the marsh and the wood arouse and the dream 
of a new day wakes. 

From the far off beach, where shore is broken and 
torn, 
And the adamant rocks abide, 
That embitter the restless tide, 
Comes an endless cry, like a soul that is weary and 
worn. 



Ill 

In sorrow I come to the shore when the long rolling 
waves, half spent, 
Sweep in, like an echo of grief, 
Embracing the beach for relief, 
Then break, and weep, and moan, outpouring their 
sad lament, 

On the welcoming sands, that spread and stretch 
in the afternoon sun ; 
So strong for the lips of the tide, 
So eager to hold and to hide 
The grief of the sea, when its uttermost toil and 
sorrowing has been done. 



60 



IV 

And why should I come to the sad-sounding sea, 
with its wail and its woe? 
With its moan on the silvery shore, 
Like a hope that is lost evermore? 
And why should I ask of this weary tide the things 
I already know? 

There is fellowship, kindred and kind, a liking of 
comrades in pain 
With a soul that's sad and the sea — 
A mystery ever to me — 
Yet a bond 'twixt the seeker of comfort and the 
unceasing wail of the main. 



V 

For peace I would come at the time, when a low 
ebbing tide is asleep ; 
When the master, the sea, is a-dream 
Touched now by the long slanting beam 
Of the sun in the West, as he warms every crest of 
the fathomless deep. 

When courage I seek and for conflict would steady 
my soul for the worst, 
I come, when the sea leaps high, 
In its limitless wrath to the sky, 
And threatens the rocks to withstand a soul that's 
accurs't. 



61 



VI 

When my soul reaches out for that unexplained 
longing for prayer 
I come to the sea. And behold 
The deeps and distance unfold 
A God who is near, and who listens and answers 
me there. 

For the sea is akin unto God, like the marsh and 
the wood; 
And softens the soul of him 
Who prays ; for the endless hymn 
That it sings is melody sweet and seals the heart 
for good. 

Who prays at the feet of the sea, when the ebb 
is low, 

Prays twice ; for a Godlike calm 

Turns simple prayer to psalm 
And swift the pleas, sea-bless'd, to answering 

Heaven go. 

VII 

I long for a night by the sea, with its silence and 
waves, 

And its stars in the low-bent blue; 

Just these — and a thought of you — 
To ease the human unrest of a soul that craves. 



62 



FRIENDLY SHORES 

Passionate sands that learned from your mother, 

the Sea, 
The spirit unrest, you call both the storm and the 

breeze 
And the waves, with a penitent plea, 
Like a soul that never has learned the blessing of 

ease. 

The wonder of sea in its endless sweep, 
The wonder of storm in its anger pace 
And the tireless winds that never sleep, 
Are the gods that love and haunt this place. 

Clean-swept each morn, as the face of a cloudless 

sky 
Is this wave-washed beach, with never a stain nor 

taint 
Upon its sands: clean-swept as the radiant eye 
That looks from the pardoned soul of a saint ! 

The endless stretch of the moaning sea, 
The rounding curve of the bending sky, 
Are mysteries all in their breadth to me 
As the shoreless space where the sea-gulls fly. 



63 



GUILTY SEA 

I 

What awful glory speaks 

Where ocean's anger, pounding rock and shore, 

Like giant Fury, restless evermore — 

Wearing a frown no master ever wore : 

What toll this monster seeks ! 

Are those league-scattered graves 

That lie upon his coral-coverd sand — 

Stretching between his East and Western land, 

And those frail wrecks that dot the hidden strand 

Too few to ease his craves? 

II 

Are not the widowed homes 

Lonesome enough your thirst for crime to pay, 
Where children pause, to weep amid their play 
And look for those so long you keep away, 
Beneath your crested domes? 

Ill 

Ah! guilty ocean, old, 

Your eyes are sleepless with unreckoned grief, 

Your restless fury brings no soul-relief 

For crimes you've done, upon each hidden reef: 

Your guilt is half untold. 



64 



TWILIGHT ON THE MAESH 

It is twilight on the marsh, the dim ending 

Of a long sweet day, now weary of golden sunshine, 

And yellow spun dreams, all full of romance and 

love. 
From the early waking of the gray dawn, 
Out there, over the calm waters of the gulf, 
When the first hungry gull flew seaward, 
Until this wistful twilight hour, 
Each moment has been filled with the glory of 

perfection : 
A day with the thoughts of old, sweet memories in 

its eyes. 

Long before the gray line of morning crossed the 

East 
I walked on the beaches yonder and listened, 
Listened to the soft spoken words of the talking 

waves. 
Mingled with their echo was the scream of the 

fish-hawk, 
Then the wild call of a gray eagle to his mate; 
And later the silver note of the hermit thrush, 
Securely hid among the myriad leaves of the live 

oak. 



65 



What a blessed experience is a summer dawn by 
the sea ! 

Every moment is an idyl, every tree a poem, 

Every sound a symphony and 

Every mist like the drapery that covers a bride. 
I have listened to the sea in its wrath 
And in its voice was the anger of a god. 
I have listened to the sea in its moaning 
And every tone was full of human grief. 
I have listened to the waves in a still June dawn 
And their voice was like the whisper of lovers. 

The sea has its magical tinge of life, thought, 
feeling, 

Full of love, hate and anger, like a living thing. 

But mystery above all else is the voice of the deep, 

Its anger expressed in storm, 

Its grief portrayed at ebb tide, 

And its peace, pictured in this golden twilight, 

Which extends from the marsh to the main, 

And in dim outline, mingles the two in one. 

The glory of a perfect day now fades upon the 

marsh, 
That like a king, weary of his pomp and power, 
Longs to share a cottage and wear no crown but 

flowers. 



66 



The little stars, with their mystery, like that of 

the sea, 
Awaken and become sensuous, like living things. 
Each prints its image upon the water, 
And out here, among the marsh grass, is an 

inverted sky, 
More beautiful with its silver and blue and green 
Than any picture yet painted by a master. 

In every clump of grass is the love call of a bird 

to its mate. 
Wings are swift in the home coming flight, 
Fear quickens each belated pilgrim; 
The thrush alone, is bold in the enveloping 

darkness, 
Daring to lift one more burst of song 
Before the day closes 

And as his last note finds an echo 

In the heart of yonder live oak, 

Deep silence settles upon the marsh, 

Broken only by the complaining murmur 

Of the sea which never sleeps. 

And further, as the darkness envelopes all this 

world 
Of marsh and sea and shore 
I am left alone. The marsh birds are asleep. 
Not a leaf of the live oak, nor a frond of the palm 

tree moves. 
Even the west winds, that swept the meadows in 

the afternoon, 
Are aweary now. They also sleep. 



67 



O RESTLESS SEA 

O Restless ocean, like a guilty soul 
Forever moving, seeking, never still; 

What is thy mystery and what thy goal, 
What is the wish thy vastness cannot fill? 

The widowed ones who lonely vigil keep ? 

The orphaned children at the widow's side? 
And victims brave who neath thy treachery sleep? 

Are these thy conscience taunts, O ocean wide? 



SEA MYSTERIES 



Vast, unknown, un-understood, 

Eloquent, soul stirring sea ! 

An epic, greater than all subjects combined, 

For the brain of man to reckon with. 

You know and reach every part of God's wide world 

Where gorgeous flowers bloom in the tropics 

And plenteous fruit ripen, to make men indolent, 

And the sun and stars shine with unfailing brilliance, 

You are there, with your mysterious stillness, 

At times, and your turbulent storms at others. 



68 



Where the shores offer you their Spring and 

Summer flowers 
And the even recurrence of seasons; 
Lifting man to his great achievements, 
You are there — 

There to bring his ships to port 
To bear his treasures and his pleasure craft upon 

your bosom, 
To aid in his enterprise and his achievements — 
To help make him great — 
Because you know his greatness can never surpass 

your own. 
Where the cold of the North and the far South 
Holds the world in its arms, beyond the approach 

of man — 
Behold you are there; 
Not because you envy one foot of the land or the 

icy coast — 
Not because man may supplant you in your power, 
But you are there, like a God — omnipresent, 
Watching the very ends of the world 
For Him who created us both. 

II 

And thus you go, even beyond the travels of man. 
You watch the polar seas as well as the desert coast 
You are friend, at once, of Arab and Esquimo. 



69 



The jungles of the Amazon's delta 

Are as familiar to you as the coasts of Greenland. 

No beach of romantic beauty 

Is beyond your knowing and your loving embrace; 

No beach so cold or desert laden 

That you do not patrol its desolate wilds 

And encourage its ice or sands with your kiss. 
And above all of this watchfulness, 
This world-wide greatness of power, 
This sympathy and tenderness, the tempest and 

calm 
You keep, untold, the secret of your crimes! 

Each i sunken ship lies far below your placid 
surface. 

No gravestones rise above the trough of your 
waves. 

When you envy man his greatness 

And wish to destroy his craft 

You call the storms, that ever await your bidding; 

And these, with fog and cloud, make easy the task. 

Then unknown graves are opened 

And shrouds, which tell no tales, 

Are laid in your depths, where the sunshine never 
enters. 



70 



GASPAEILLA'S WAY 

The story of Gasparilla, the Spanish Buccaneer of the Flor- 
ida west coast is full of romantic interest. Located on the is- 
lands about Charlotte Harbor, with a daring band of pirates 
he captured ship after ship and is said to have collected over 
thirty million dollars. He slew all male captives, but took care 
of the women in his castle home on Sanibelle island. "While 
attacking a ship in 1802, too large for his small force and see- 
ing he would be captured the daring old outlaw wrapped an 
anchor chain about his body and leaped overboard — thus de- 
feating his capture: 

He made himself a monarch — and of the vine-clad 

isles, 
He made his royal kingdom; and where old Tampa 

smiles 
He launched his craft to sail the seas, for miles and 

miles. 

With all his cruel making, he was a buccaneer 
Who lifted sail in any storm, with never dread or 

fear, 
Who went in search of alien gold, in each craft, 

sailing near. 

The sunny gulf his hunting ground for every daring 

sail 
That would invade his kingdom; and how the aliens 

quail 
When Gasparilla's pirates the freighted ships assail! 



71 



Where lies the fair Captiva and tropic Sanibelle 
He built himself a castle — and so the stories tell, 
That there he dwelt as monarch, ruling his subjects 
well. 

Maker of self a monarch, choosing a kingdom fair 
He ruled, as rules the kingly, giving his braves a 

share 
Of all the precious treasures he reaped from 

everywhere. 

Where gulf line bending westward from Marco's 

sunlit sand 
Runs on to busy Tampa, his daring, eager band 
Intently watched for victims from every point of 

land. 

Outside his coral palace each captive male he slew, 
But each fair Eve he shielded; and with his fearless 

crew 
His soul aflame with courage — his creed was to 

subdue. 

Wild liberty of action, as boundless as the sea, 
From which he drew his treasure, a master great 

was he, 
His soul knew all the feedom, as tropic winds set free. 

But when at last the hand of Fate was laid upon 

his head 
He quickly snuffed the flame of life, upon his face no 

dread ; 
With couraged hand he stilled his heart — the 

buccaneer was dead. 



72 



SAEGASSO 

There is an old legend about the Sargasso Sea east of the 
Florida Coast that has all the mystic charm of Homeric days, 
although it belongs to a later age. The legend is Spanish and 
is supposed to have had its origin in the minds of the early 
navigators, who followed Columbus on his first voyages of dis- 
covery, and developed by later sailors, whose ships were steer- 
ing direct for the Florida shores. 

All winds blew toward the Sargasso and meeting there, 
as a kind of marine prison, a place where mariners could 
be destroyed by calms, when the wildest storms had failed. 

All winds blew toward the Sargasso and meeting there, a 
vast sea-area of calm prevailed, from which it was impossible 
for sailing craft to escape. The legend says that more ships 
were lost in "the sea of calms" than Neptune was able to de- 
stroy by fierce winds and waves. 

The story which follows comes down to us from old Spanish 
records and recounts the trying experiences of the brave nav- 
igators of that early period, before the seas were mapped or 
known. 



For eleven days, eternal days, as they seemed while 

the good ship ran 
Into the face of the worst of storms since Neptune's 

rule began, 
We rose and fell, in a sea of hell, with never a chart 

or plan. 

We were out beyond the blue Azores, where no man 

knew the path, 
That lay beyond. Yet each man saw the wild sea's 

threatening wrath, 
That followed the wake of an Autumn storm, like 

some ghostly aftermath. 



73 



We knelt about the sea-washed decks and prayed 

as ne'er before — 
To every God and every creed of priest and priestly 

lore 
To bring our sail from out the wail of storm — to 

some calm shore. 

And yet through days and endless nights the wind- God 

blew his blast. 
And waves came on like mountain crests, that swayed 

our faithful mast, 
And put a prayer in every soul, as men pray at the 

last. 

I saw my comrade, crazed with thirst, just at the set 

of sun, 
Leap from the deck and sink below — a hero's victory 

won — 
And only wished that I could do the deed that he had 

done. 

And as the darkness settled down upon our famished 

crew, 
There came from out the South a gale, with wings 

which swifter flew, 
And as it went each wild gust sung this deathly, 

ghostly mew : — 



74 



II 

Song of The Wind 

"We come from the shadowy ways unknown, 

From paths which no men tread ; 

Our home is the place whence storms are blown 

Which strew the seas with dead. 

Darker the night and the more we smile, 

For we work twixt sun and sun 

And we strew the main for mile and mile 

With the craft of crews undone. 

And you who dare to cross our path, 

Thinking that you are strong, 

Shall yield at the touch of our fateful wrath 

And die as you hear our song. 

For we come from the shadowy ways of dread, 

From the sea's unchartered path; 

We laugh at the waves, thick strewn with dead, 

As toll of the storm-God's wrath." 

Ill 

Each sailor heard this death knell song out there on 

that awful sky, 
Each saw the tropic lightning flash and the thunder's 

quick reply 
And it entered deep within each soul that death was 

walking nigh. 

Then by some strange tuition, just why, no one could 

say, 
All who were left upon the ship at once bent low to 

pray— 
And as we rose behold there dawned the light of 

another day. 



75 



IV 

Somehow new hope shone in each face, 

Somehow we sailed in a calmer place, 

Each soul was soothed with a heavenly grace — 

But not a soul knew why — 
Save that our prayers had stormed the gate 
In the heavenly wall — where the blessed wait. 

In our pinnace wake the storm-god flew, 
But fast the leagues between us grew — 
Then sudden a little patch of blue 

Appeared above our sail ! 
So every word was a word of praise 
For the end of unforgotten days: 
Then a sea of calm passed on our gaze 

Across our forward rail. 

Into its weeded calm we went 

By force of the gale's last touch, now spent; 

But into a greater punishment — 

Into Sarigasso Sea ! 
Circled around by storm and wind, 
Whence voyages never find an end, 
Save when they into its depths descend 

Is this place of mystery. 

Slime, with its seaweed intermixed, 
Glistened and glared. Up and betwixed 
The sea and sky white heat was fixed 

In sickening, blinding glare ! 
Wrecks from every land and sea 
Filled all this place of mystery, 
Hopes, whose end could never be 

For us, were there, — all there. 



76 



In a thousand homes lean Sorrow keeps 
Her steady watch — the woman weeps: — 
And tear drops stain where an orphan sleeps, 

Because of this mystery : 
In a thousand ports no word is said 
Of the missing sail and the missing head, 
Of the unreturning — the brave one dead 
In the Sargasso Sea ! 

O God ! the dread that surged our brain 
As we helpless lay in this lifeless plain — 
A palsied part of the mighty main, 

In the Sargasso Sea! 
How we prayed once more for the shipping wind 
Whose gusts our faithful mast would bend 
And speed our ships to the sea's far end 

E'en to eternity. 

Here was a sail from a Northern clime, 

Here one from shores where soft waves chime: 

Both here at rest for all, all time, 

With a home port never more. 
There lay the wreck of a pinnace bold 
In the slime and sun grown gray and old — 
Just one of the many in this strange fold, 

Kept here from its native shore. 

Above this spot strange ghost hopes rise, 
With beckoning mystery in their eyes, 
The wistful look that never dies 

Where hope has been! 
Some sailed with the gold-thought uppermost, 
While some sought fame, others were host 
To plain adventure — now each the ghost 

Of the aims of men. 

77 



How long we lived in this awful calm no man of us 

could tell, 
Each had forgot to count the days under this dreaded 

spell — 
For each day seemed a century, like a soul's first day 

in hell. 

All night the stars shone very low, as if in pity sent 
And we lay awake watching the sky, like a prison 

o'er us bent, 
Each like a stolid prisoner, taking his punishment. 

Some prayed aloud for the courage, to do what those 

had done, 
Who in the storm had ended all, before this calm 

begun — 
For strength to snap the slender thread on which 

their hopes were spun. 

Others, half fainting, prayed aloud for children on 

the shore 
In some home port, while others prayed to see her 

face once more — 
Some prayed for bread and some for drink and some, 

delirious, swore. 

And while this awful picture lay upon this sea of 

dread, 
Beyond the fore-rail Neptune lifted high his ancient 

head 
And pointing eastward with his hand in thundering 

utterance said: 



78 



VI 

Neptune 

"You left the sunny vales of Spain 
The hillsides of content, 
To trespass on my vast domain 
With evil souls intent. 

For ages all this shoreless sea 
Untrammelled has been mine — 
Its every league belongs to me 
By heritage divine. 

For eleven days I urged my storms 
To do for you their worst — 
To fill your souls with death's alarms 
Like those who are accurst: 

Yet I decreed you should not die 
By wind or boisterous sea, 
But find your graves beneath this sky 
Of calm and mystery. 

More have I killed within this calm 
Than all the sea upon: 

This stillness fills with dread and qualm 
And soon the deed is done. 

So lie you there in indolence 
And wait for Death to call, 
Your helplessness and impotence 
More bitter makes the gall. 



79 



This is the graveyard of the main, 
I bring men here to weep 
Because you trespassed my domain 
In sea-graves you shall sleep ! 

Within the circled sea of weed 
No helpful wind shall blow 
To bend your sail in hour of need — 
No further shall you go. 

All prisoners mine, like those before 
Who came with wrong intent, 
No more your eyes shall see the shore — 
Take, now, your punishment. 

A thousand argosies that sailed 

On these forbidden seas 

Now sleep beneath you, torn and scaled- 

You soon shall rest with these." 



VII 

Thus, when the sea-god finished in every soul was 

dread — 
The weight of time pressed heavy on every whitened 

head, 
Made white, not from the toll of age, but from sudden 

fear instead. 



80 



And when we looked upon that calm, with its glare of 

light and sun 
And the long, stilled reefs of sea-weed that o'er the 

waters run, 
Each lifted eye, toward the sky, had the look of a 

soul undone. 

Helpless we lay, through the long, long day, until 

the stars appeared — 
But night with its phantom mist and gloom more than 

the day was feared — 
For through the mist in a whispered "hist!" the voice 

of Death was heard. 

And lying there in the stifling air on the pulseless 

still lagoon, 
Like sullen prisoners, dungeon-doomed, where never 

a hope was hung 
As we heard the "hist" of Death creep on, a whisper 

then a croon — 
Our feeble voices — minor toned — in desperation sung: 

VIII 

Song: "O, Give Us The Storm." 

"O give us the storm," — each singer said, 
"Give us the shipping wind, 
Kain Fate's worst fury on our head : 
Better to break than bend: — 
Better the surge of the angry main 
Than this voiceless calm and heat, 
Better the toil, through cutting pain 
Of the wind and blinding sheet 

Of tropic rain from day to day 

Than to die of dull decay. 

81 



"Give us the seas that swirl and swoon — 

Give us the storms that cut and sting, 

Far better these than this still lagoon 

Which sleeps like a pulseless thing: 

For we are men who have braved the worst 

From Greece to the Gates of Hercules, 

Eather by ocean's anger curst 

Than lulled to death in this sea of ease. 
Give us, O Neptune's soul, we pray 
One blast that will drive us far away." 

IX 

As the long days spun their web of woe, 
As the long days pressed the burning sun 
Upon our heads — the long ago 
Came back like a skeleton. 

Drifting across this circled reef 

We reached the further end 

And lo ! in the midst of hopeless grief 

Our sails commenced to bend. 

X 

For, out of the South, in piteous thought, some faithful 

God had sent 
O'er the distant leagues this cooling breeze, to stay 

our punishment — 
And came as the word of pardon comes to the soul 

of a penitent. 



82 



We slipped the line of the seaweed rim — 

We were out on the sea again 
Our sails bent full and the goodly ship 

Sped, free from her prison chain — 
While far to the West a shore line bent, in the mist, 

like an emerald stain. 

The sight of the palm-reefed, winding shores were 

sweeter to us by far — 
Than the light which shines, for those who are lost, 

in the face of a guiding star — 
And sweeter still, was the patch of blue, which shone 

in the skies afar. 

No weary prisoner ever left his dungeon gloom and 

chain 
With lighter hearts, than we, who sailed from out 

this sea of pain, 
And looked upon God's own green world in sweet 

content again! 



83 



POEMS OF NATURE 

The tumult of the city shuts out the stars overhead, 

And ne'er a wayside blossom glows 

Along the paths men tread: 
But way down home, where the whip-poor-will 

Enchants the woods of June, 

With a lover's plaintive tune, 
The night is soft and sweet and still 

Under the silver moon. 



TALL PINES 

I played about them as a boy in glee, 
And somehow from the ground to highest 

spars 
They always looked like silent gods to me; 
Their lofty tops seemed playing with 

the stars. 

Each winter storm, with gritted teeth 

would bend 
His pitted wrath against their lofty height ; 
Through all these years each would more 

deeply send 
His firm roots down in majesty of might. 

I've heard them sing. Their far-off needled 

heights 
Were like the strings of some Aeolian lyre ; 
Their notes were dirges, weird, melodious 

flights 
Of wild, sweet music, full of strange desire, 

Tears pass. They ruddier stand, unmoved 

and still, 
Firm fixed, with roots deep set within 

the sod, 
And more than then, my wondering soul 

they fill 
With time's old faith in God. 



87 



THE LIVE OAK 

I count my age by storms. My comrade there, the sea 

Is greater and wiser and older 

Than I — and bolder; 

He whips and nays me with winds 

Until my patience unbends, 

Until the peace I love so well is broken in me. 

Hard master is the main. Forever awake with desires 
Eager and watching for plunder, 
He casts the weak asunder; 
The pitiful home-going craft 
He leaves there abaft 

With naught but the low-sunken spar; the sea never 
tires. 

Wise and persistent the sea. Where the palmetto 

grows 
Close up to the eddying beaches 
His watery finger reaches; 
Then the sorrowful palmetto bows 
Like a sinner who vows, 
But the victim belongs to the main, as the dark 

surf knows. 

The sea is a god in his might ; thus I plant me aside, 
Away from his turbulent thunder, 
So his hand going under 
May touch not my roots in the sand 
But leave me to stand 

Safe fixed from his tireless wind and far reaching 
tide. 



SUMMER CLOUDS 

I 

Like castle dreams ye wander in and out 
The sky's blue fields, as one, demure, devout, 
Aimlessly goes, he knows not how or where 
The chartless road of never-ending doubt. 

II 

From out the vale where childhood's memories keep 
The by-ways green, I often look and weep, 
When I discern how many castles fair 
Ye set for me, along youth's golden stair, 
Which with my host of broken idols sleep. 

Ill 

And yet ye go, like gods of liberty, 
Laggard or fleet, unfettered, wild and free; 
Ye bring the breezes to the scorching corn, 
Ye cool the brow where life is weary- worn 
And bind upon my soul your mystery. 

IV 

Clouds of the Summer, speak to me and tell, 

Are ye the castles where the lost souls dwell? 
In all your moving through the sky about 
Are ye impelled by Time's old monster, Doubt? 

Alas ! before I have one faint reply 

The castle fades into the bluest sky. 



89 



HAVE YOU HEAKD THE SOUTH 
A-CALLING? 

Have you plucked the snowy daisies in the Spring? 
Then a memory of their sweetness yet must cling 

To the Past, with all its treasure — 

To the Past's untainted pleasure 
That in your soul forevermore will sing. 

Have you watched the snowy daisy fields at night? 
Every stem with heart of gold and petals white, 

With the moonlight on them streaming 

And half the stars a- dreaming 
And Love beside you walking in the light. 

Have you heard the mock-bird singing soft and 

low ? 
In the stillness of the night-time, singing slow, 

With a harvest moon a-clinging 

To the sky where stars are flinging 
Worlds of light because they love the daisies so. 

Then you've heard the South a-calling in the Spring 
When the crocus comes a-blooming, dainty thing; 

No matter where you wander, 

O'er these memories you'll ponder 
When you hear the South a-calling in the Spring. 



90 



SUNSET 

I 

My beautiful sun, going out through the gates of 

the West; 
Going out through the mist covered valleys of 

rest: 
All day, every bloom that bespangled the meadows 

of Spring 
Has wrapped you in love, so close to its odorous 

breast. 

My beautiful sun, like messenger silent and 

still, 
How softly you warm the green bearded wheat on 

the hill: 
No wonder that men, in the long ago, worshipped 

your name 
And bowed in obedience, close to your reverent 

will. 



II 



What lotus-bound shores do you pass in your journey 

of night? 
What valley of dreams do you see in the half 

hidden light? 
What echo of songs, long lost to the mortals who 

weep, 
Lifts soft, as you sail, through the dream-guarded 

vistas of flight? 



91 



I wonder what zephyr-swept coasts, where the red 

poppy grows, 
Thus impelling those dreams of delight each 

mariner knows, 
You touch with your beams, while man in forget- 

fulness dreams: 
What wind of the blest in the path of your 

journeying blows? 

Ill 

I have seen you go down where the wondrous West 

was afire, 
And caught your last look from gold-pointed 

cloister spire 
And wonder what dreams you must pass in the 

silence of night, 
As you travel the odorous vales through the land 

of desire. 

I have watched the red West, where your fast waning 

beams glorify 
Each loitering cloud, that sails in indolence by, 
And have asked the first star, if the secrets you keep 

he could tell, 
But the star twinkles on, too happy to make me 

reply. 



92 



IV 



My beautiful sun, like a curfew of silence you call, 
From field and from mart, your manifold children, 

all 
Who roam in your light, but in shade and dim 

shadows take fright, 
And seek the home nest, ere the phantoms of darkness 

shall fall. 

I've seen in the meadow the Summer bird busy all 

day, 
Forgetful of mate in joy of self-pleasing lay, 
Who, missing the light, in the stealthy approach of 

the night, 
Turned song into search and joy into sudden 

dismay. 

V 

Good-night, sweet sun, going out through the gates 

of the West; 
I, too, some day shall pass through the portals of 

rest, 
And like you go out, to the mystical land of the 

night, 
Like you, on the Morrow, awake for Eternity's quest. 



93 



AT THE POINT OF THE CAPE 



Dawn at the point of the cape, where the land runs 

evenly down 
To the narrowest slip and is lost in the arms of 

the main; 
A white beach, dimmed by the mantle of night, with 

never a spot or a stain, 
Stretches away, like a ribbon of light, to the distant 

edge of the town. 

II 

High noon at the cape, with the loitering clouds all 

mixed and tangled 
With the intricate tints of the sky's own blue ; 
East and West the stretch of the vision bespangled 
With colors and shades of a nameless hue. 

Day seems a-pause, with a passionate sense of leaving 
This mystery beach, with its clean swept sands of gold ; 
The wild trees lean, with arms to the seaward, 

grieving 
For the tale of wrecks that remain forever untold. 

Ill 

Night off the point of the cape — full moon a cloud 

and the sea: 
Just these and that unsolved mystery 
Of darkness and silence, that storm through the 

soul in its plight 
When alone with itself and the night. 



94 



AN AUTUMN MOOD 

Old road, old trees, and sedge-encumbered 
fence 
From which the newer things have long, 
long since 
Lifted their wings and flown. 
Kude gate and door and lonely ingle-nook 
Where Love and Laughter once were wont 
to look 
Into each other's face, now gone — forever 
gone? 

A field of graves that hold the blessed 
dead; 
The autumn sun, dim, shining overhead; 
An East wind blowing free : 
Old Winter's sceptre on the black-gum's 

leaf 
Red in the West — a threatened weather- 
grief — 
The wild geese flying southward to 
the sea. 



95 



OUR MOCKING BIRD 

To a New England philosopher who never heard our mock- 
ing bird sing. 

I 

You have not heard 

Our mocking bird, 

That minstrel of our southern hill and sky, 

Singing before the gates of April dawn 

Ere veil of night is drawn, 
Maker of reed notes played by ancient Pan 
And sweet lute echoes for the caravan 
Of travelers, who chance, are passing by? 

II 

You have not heard 

Our mocking bird? 

Then what can all your human wisdom teach 

For in each silver note 

From singer's feathered throat 
The happiness of age on age is heard 
And vaster glory than the dead years preach. 

Ill 

Ah ! leave behind your sedgy hills of gray 

Where chill winds sweep the rocks with mist and 
spray 
Leave these ! and hence toward the amorous South- 
She of black tangled hair and passioned mouth, 
To where the spiked palmettos blocks your way, 
Where ancient live-oaks count the years a day, 
Where marshes mix and mingle with the sea, 
And wild, sweet vines embrace each lusty tree — 
Where every mile, but beckons one league more 
And Heaven opens, like an open door: 

Come hither, stranger, once, and say you've heard 

The nameless music of our mocking bird. 

96 



TO THE OLD NORTH STATE 
I 

A toast to North Carolina — who blessed my dreams 

of untried years 
And gave me all the best I have — the best, as well, 

of hers : 
No plain, or vale, or hilltop — or shore swept by the 

sea, 
But is holy — but is sacred — all are beautiful to me. 

II 

Say not that we forget thee — thy sons — thy daughters 

—all 
Still keep in their inner being a list for thy motherly 

call; 
For old Love ever remembers — old Love can never 

forget — 
No matter where Fortune may carry — you are mother 

to all of us yet. 

Ill 

Knowing, as all of us know the flame of her crimson 

September, 
Ah how can we ever forget — or fail to remember 
The long purple tops of her hills and the spruce 

craggy heights in the west 
And the rivers that wind in between — like a soul in 

its quest. 

IV 

From the Smokies which rise like a god, where the 

last fading rays of the sun 
Catch a glimpse of their height, to a point, where the 

rocks of Hatteras run 
For out in the death- dealing sea — there is ever the 

rise and fall 
Of valley — of hill and of plain, — which to all of us call. 

97 



V 

It is spring in her valleys to-night — there is perfume 

of lilac and rose 
And never from out the red South, where the idle 

wind blows, 
Came sweeter the rest and the calm — and the merciful 

sleep and repose 
In the song she sings to her own — in the hush she 

bestows. 

VI 

There are stars in her skies to-night — bright silver, 

a-twinkle, a-thrill, 
And a moon we shall all remember — as all lovers will ; 
And it seems there comes thru the distance, like a 

vision of mist, or a strain: 
Once more we are walking with Romance — we are 

lovers and sweethearts again. 



98 



SPRINGTIME IN CAROLINA 



Springtime once more in Carolina 

When the green hills touch the sky — • 

Heaven seems a little closer 

As the April clouds go by : 

Now the thrush sings soft and longer, 
And the heart beats quick and stronger, 

For no mortal wants to die. 

II 

Springtime once more in Carolina 

Like some resurrection day — 

All the wood and vale a-blossom, 

Every heart in tune for play : 

Life seems doubly sweet and sweeter, 
Every day is fleet and fleeter, 
Every soul a lotus-eater 

All our worries far away. 

Ill 

Springtime once more in Carolina 
Where each lazy western breeze 
Brings its odors from the gardens 
And from snow-white orchard trees : 

When each morning brings new glory, 
Sweet as some old eastern story 
From the Blue Ridge to the seas. 



99 



IV 

Springtime for us in Carolina 

Seems so near to heaven's gate 

That whoever starts a journey 

Always gets there late: 

And when some one blows his horn 
Calling us on judgment morn 
We'll go slowly and forlorn 

For we'll want to wait. 

V 

Springtime once more in Carolina 

Song and sunshine everywhere, 

Odors from the daisied meadows 

All our senses snare — 

From each hedge are tulips burning 
With love's flame — and youth is 

learning 
Life's old story — with its yearning 

In a land so fair. 



100 



APKIL KAIN 

The Master, listening from the skies, 

Where warmth and light forever please the eyes, 

Heard, far away, sad, uncomplaining sighs 

Of children, wearied with the pain 

Where Winter crucifies 

With Frost and Cold before he dies. 

The Master listened once again 

Then sent the April rain. 

And lo ! from meadow-ways of white, 

Be-covered, sweet and clean, 

There came the laughter, full and strong, 

Of Children in delight 

Whose sighs were turned to song, 

Because the Master felt their pain 

And sent the April rain. 

APRIL CLOUDS 

Ye idle gypsies of the April sky 

That wander in, your pathless world, and out, 

Aimless as they bereft of care and doubt; 

Have ye no wish to wait and linger nigh 

The myrtle hedge that blooms, serene, about 

The meadow ways? Dear April clouds, I see 

Your ardent love of gypsy liberty 

Impels each mile you go, knowing not why, 

Nor where, your twilight camp shall be. 



101 



THE WINTEK WIND 



Spirit of long-lost souls, is yours the voice I hear 
Among the leafless trees without my gate; 
Is yours the wail, so tremulous with fear, 
Or, in its minor note, so full of hate? 

II 

A world of freedom beckons to your wing; 
Yet freedom's breath can never satisfy 
Your fated soul, no matter where you fly: 
The starry nights no solace to you bring. 

Ill 

About my cottage eaves you wail and weep, 
And at my cottage door you loudly call : 
All night this cry of sorrowing you keep, 
Until your voice is like some ghostly pall 
That fills my soul and steals the gift of sleep. 

IV 

What were the crimes you did, with keen intent, 

In distant age that caused relentless fates 

To close upon you, ever more the gates 

Of peace, and brought this bitter punishment? 

V 

Without, the night grows colder; and the busy frost 
Crystals each faded blade with stars of white: 
But lo ! until the Dawn's first wave of light 
The sad winds sing their dirges of the lost. 



102 



PRIMROSE 

Heart of the Primrose, how I have waited 
Eager, expectant, your coming each Spring ; 
How every tint of your blossoms, so mated, 
Rhymed with the garden's most delicate thing. 

Mocking-bird, thrush and robin together 
Waited your coming, as eager as I; 
Singing a welcome, as soft as the weather, 
Wooing you back with song and a sigh. 

Heart of the Primrose, over and over 
I've told you my love as a lover should tell 
And yet you look shy at the rose and the clover 
And choose all alone in my garden to dwell. 



Welcome my messenger, bringing me glory, 
Linked with the blossoms that cluster in June, 
You come with the warmth and breath of a story, 
That lilts with the notes of a lover's old tune. 



103 



TO AN OLD CYPEESS 

Gray remnant of the cruel years, 
Aged vassal of the winds that blow! 
The measure of your unwept tears, 
The measure of your nameless fears 
Would fill the stoutest heart with woe. 

Lifting your unprotected head 
Within the fury of the rain, 
Mocking the storms that o'er you tread 
Mocking the ills that mortals dread, 
You scoff at awe and pain. 

The winds have wearied of their rage 
To wrest you from the mountain side: 
Of faith you keep the heritage 
Which valor gives to noble age: 
Amid the wrecks you still abide. 

How bitter was the Winter's cold! 

How fierce the winds that round you swept. 

These secrets you will not unfold, 

Their story will remain untold: 

These safely in your soul are kept. 

Stand out, gray cypress, let men see 
Your form against the firmament ; 
For Courage make your silent plea, 
Teach us your creed, O noble tree, 
Lift high your own gray monument. 



104 



NIGHT IN THE TKOPICS 



How still these waters are ! 
No sandal- footed breeze to stir the dew-wet trees; 
A silence soft, as that a dreamer sees 
In slumber's realm, before the vision flees 

Through Fancy's gates ajar. 

Yon silver-crested moon, 
That rides the vastness of the peace-enamored night 
Tints every cloud with lacy rims of white 
And floods the bay with her mysterious light, 

And hither dark lagoon. 

The storm-god sleeps at ease! 
Not one green leaf the waiting silence bends, 
No sound above the sand-wrapped shore I ascends, 
A dream awaking from the mist unbends, 

Like incense through the trees. 

What mystery is this 
That holds the mid-night with Lethean spell 
Of silence and no secret dares to tell? 
Guarding, in peace, with mute, sad lips so well 

Its sorrow and its bliss! 

II 

Was that the whisper of some joy-swept leaf 
Of yonder trailing cypress vine, 
Or else the sound of over-flowing grief 
From this dirge-singing pine? 



105 



Only the dew drops from the chemist Night, 
Falling from leaf to leaf, like sands 
In tell-tale glass, that mark the steady flight 
Of Time through orient lands. 

Ill 

Ah ! there is a sound ! 
A weird, sweet lyric sound of waking bird, 
O'er- full of joy, of joy that must be heard, 
But soft and low, as when some fairy stirred, 

Above the sacred ground. 

Where lotus dwellers sing, 
They tell of echoes, that come sweet and low : 
So yonder notes rise wistfully and slow, 
Soothing, as when the sleepy southwinds blow 

And to the blossoms cling. 

YELLOW JASMINE 
I 

Where the lonesome woodlands hold 

Nymphs and Dryads bold, 
And while blossoms yet are sleeping 

In the Winter's mold 
Yellow jasmine comes a-peeping 

Through the forests old. 

Long before the rosy Spring 

Teaches birds to sing, 
Like some prophet, true to duty 

Comes this yellow thing, 
Hanging out its lamps of beauty, 

Eoyal as a king. 

106 



Sound the oak and maple tree 

Jasmine, tenderly, 
Loves in solitude to twine; 

And in wanton glee 
Swings its lamps from every vine 

That the birds may see. 

And these lamps swing to and fro 

As the night winds blow : 
Nymphs and Dryads slip about, 

Parting as they go, 
Brush and bramble in and out 

Through the yellow glow. 

II 

Jasmine peeps on every side 

With a queenly pride, 
Hangs about the sturdy oak 

Like a trusting bride, 
Then there swings this lover's sign : 

"With thee I abide." 

Yonder by the dark lagoon 

Where the mid-night moon 
Throws its mellow lover's light, 

Hear the west winds croon 
As the jasmine vines they smite 

To some magic tune. 



107 



Ill 

Ah, what mystery complete 

In these woods I meet ; 
Ah, what silences abound 

In this wild retreat; 
Ah ! what Sirens walk around 

On their noiseless feet. 



Teach me, yellow jasmine vine, 

Why this charm of thine? 
Why the forests love you so, 

By what mystic sign 
You the Springtime's coming know, 

Messenger of mine. 

LAND OF "SOMEWHERE" 

The land "Somewhere," 

Ah must be fair, 

Surpassing fair! 
For it is safe from touch of human pain, 
Whose shores have never known the reddish stain 
Of crime, nor ever felt the curse's bane. 

Of sin's despair. 

It must be far, 

Under some blessed star, 

Some undiscovered star, 
Along whose shores the lotus branches twine, 
Whose odors quicken, like old vintaged wine, 
Where melodies about the soul entwine 

And never jar. 



108 



It must be, too, 

Though old, yet new, 

Like day-dawn, new 
As when the Night has wakened from his sleep 
And Dawn looks forth from out the Orient deep, 
The promise of another day to keep 

Silvered with dew. 

Under its skies 

Love never dies 

But ever vies 
With eons, as they take their dateless flight 
In pointing souls to new paths of delight 
And finding undreamed glory on each height 

In new disguise. 

Dear God, who knows 

A sad heart's woes, 

A dead heart's snows, 
Must there not lie, beyond its fitful day 
We here call life, with all its shadows gray, 
This land "Somewhere," beyond despair, dismay?' 

Whither man goes? 

Its far-off skies 

To human eyes 

Keep in disguise, 
And yet, sometimes among the summer trees, 
We catch faint glimpses of its sun-swept leas 
As one, who ship-wrecked, in the distance sees 

A sail arise. 



109 



CALL OF THE WOODS 

Here all the tumult of the market-place, 

Here all the glamor of the crowded street, 
Where vain deception walks with haughty face 

Is lost amid thy stillness and I meet 
My other self amid this cloistered shade, 

My better self, which worldly ways suppress, 
And find the peace that comes to him who's prayed 

With unobstructed soul in deep distress. 

Dear woods, that stand in silent patience thru 

The crowding years, always content to be 
Constant in season, joyless at Winter's rue, 

Happy at bloom of Spring's anemone, 
How I have lived amid thy silent glooms, 

How I have prayed within this sacred bower, 
Thinking, perchance, the stillness of these rooms 

Would teach me patience for the tempter's hour. 

Dear woods, I pity him who never yet has known 

Thy solitude, the peace which everywhere 
Bends like a benediction, softly blown 

O'er all thy space, like answer to a prayer. 
If I have sinned, repentance here I learn; 

If I have hurt, forgiveness here I crave; 
If I have fallen, evil here I spurn; 

Out of my weakness, woods, again I'm brave. 



110 



DAYBEEAK 

The sensuous night has spun her web of dreams 

Aslant the east a sickle moon shines dim 

Through leaves be-drenched with dew drops to the 

brim. 
Lo ! every ingle with rich perfume teems. 
It is the hush that comes before the dawn, 
That pent-up stillness which the langorous night 
Has brewed before the shadows take their flight: 
The bended bow unto the arrow drawn. 

Here every tree, robed in its new-grown leaves, 
Bends heavy with the weighted weight of Spring. 
Long sinuous vines in reckless embrace cling 
And wave, as touched, by every wanton breeze. 
The wildwood poppies redden'ng in the glow 
Of virgin blushes, bend their heads in sleep, 
As down their stems the crystal dew drops creep: 
Night's darkest hour treads stealthily and slow. 

Behold, a spear of gold upon the gray 
Of yonder sky ! first messenger of light, 
Touching the sleepy eye-lids of the night; 
The harbinger of fast approaching day. 
Listen the note, from out yon valley deep, 
A clarion call, as clear and sharp and shrill 
As Peter heard, the waking woodways fill ; 
The end of dreams, of silence and of sleep. 



Ill 



I hear the waking of the myriad things 

That in the wood's seclusion softly dwell, 

The busy tenants of this perfumed dell; 

The droning bee — the softened whirr of wings. 

Then lo! a song from thrush's clear-toned throat 

Wakes all the silence of these arches dim — 

The very daybreak's consecrated hymn, 

Whose echoes through the morning twilight float. 

Then through the cloistered aisles the white stars pale 

Before the lordly march of coming day. 

The sickle moon, undone, now fades away, 

And gold-tipped clouds across her vision sail. 

In every tree some unseen choir awakes, 

A very symphony of lute and lyre; 

A thousand dew-drops glisten with the fire 

The Master kindles when the daylight breaks. 

And after all this prelude to the day, 

Its music soft as unseen flutes of Spring, 

The flit and whirr of joy-engrossing wing, 

Too happy in one favored spot to stay, 

But from each tree some new-found joy partakes; 

And when the Master's hand the picture shows 

In colors rare, and from each dew- wet flower 

New perfume consecrates this magic hour, 

And joy- wrought splendor in each tree top glows — 

Lo ! after all this glory, weary man awakes. 



112 



They tell the story of a weary child, 
Whose feet, accustomed to the city street, 
Had never seen the tangled daisies wild, 
Nor ever trod where field and woodland meet ; 
Who, when she saw this simple glory, smiled 
And asked if all of Heaven was so complete. 

And yet, men rich in all this worldly store, 

Live pauper-like upon the stony street. 

Their coffers filled, they quickly seek for more, 

Loving the mart, where show and pretense meet; 

They never pass the city's outer gate 

Where God's green lanes in sweet contentment wait. 

TO HARKIET SHELLY 

Ah! to have known the thrill of life, with him, the 

idol of the gods, 
And then to fall and feel the woe, where sorrow 

only trods; 
Ah! to have known his passioned love and shared 

the embrace of his arms 
And after loving — lose — and walk the roadway of 
alarms ! 
But greater pity thus to leave 
The path with him secure, serene, 
And find a nameless grave beneath 
The treacherous Serpentine! 



113 



DAISIES 



The legends tell, 

When angels fell, 

One, Myrra, with a heart of gold, 

Down from her place of royal birth 

Fell to the common ways of earth 

And was entombed within its mould. 

In later age, 

On legend's page 

The story of the flowers is told — 

How from the spot where Myrra slept 

A white-rimmed, smiling daisy crept, 

And blossomed with an angel's soul. 

And so to-day, 

In fields of May, 

The daisies bloom and smile and die; 

Each with its face of white and gold 

Content its mother-heart to hold, 

To live and love beneath God's sky. 

And so my child, 

In meadows wild 

You see the daisies everywhere; 

But ne'er a look of discontent 

You find among these blossoms lent 

From Myrra 's soul, whose smile they wear. 



114 



SILENT GODS 



How many pray to Gods who have no ears ! 
How many bow, within the cloister gate 
To forms, without the pulse of love or hate, 
Or souls to feel the burn of grief-arisen tears ! 

II 

Be it the Isis of the lazy Nile, 

Be it the Jove of Greece's olive plain, 

Or Mammon's face, beloved of modern Cain: 

These silent Gods refuse to hear or smile. 



THE OLD SOUTH FABM 



The tumult of the city shuts out the stars o'erhead, 

And ne'er a wayside blossom glows 

Along the paths men tread: 
But way down home, where the whip-poor-will 

Enchants the woods of June, 

With a lover's plaintive tune, 
The night is soft and sweet and still 

Under the silver moon. 



115 



II 

Beneath the lights of the city, I see within its glare 
Sad hearts that throb beneath a smile: 

I see men drink the sparkling wine and swear 
Their joy. But after while 

Behold ! within the dimly-lighted room 
The haggard face and stare: 

Where glowed the phantom smile, is gloom : 

Where Joy was god, now rules the ghost Despair! 

Ill 

But on the old South Farm in Caroline 

There are few lights that shine 
Within this night, save yonder stars and moon : 

And where the columbine 

Trails up its dainty vine 
Around the poplar's height, 

A dreaming Thrush's tune 
Softens the perfumed night 

Of June, of matchless June. 

IV 

Lo! when the dawn shall break, 

Down there in Caroline, 
No saddened hearts will wake: 
For on each vale and meadow-way and hill 

The light of peace will shine 
And wild, sweet notes the wooded heights will shake 

And every valley thrill. 
For dawn brings no regrets for thee and thine. 

Dear Old South Farm, 
Way down in Caroline. 



116 



THE MASTEK PAINTEK 

The June sun sweeps his painter's brush, silently 

up the swarded hill, 
And lo ! the brown turns quick to green ; and where 

the busy, grumbling rill 
Through wooded brush and tangled glen finds slowly 

his obstructed way 
The painter leaves upon the rocks his lichen spots 

of gray. 

Have you not heard the children laugh amid the 

purple dawn of spring, 
Because the lilac in the night had blossomed like 

some holy thing : 
For while they slept the painter came and with his 

art forever new 
He touched the waiting buds and lo ! spring's glory 

smiled amid the dew. 

I know you've heard the thrush's note come with a 

happier, silver thrill 
Before the sun rays yet had touched her nest below 

the hill; 
Know ye that while she slept and dreamed of 

summer days ahead 
The painter touched the maple buds and turned 

them deeper red. 



117 



THE THEUSH 

I 

Fair beyond words to describe, in their soft, lilting 

measure 
Of rhythmical song, and filled with some unknown 
pleasure 

Must be that shore 
Which sleeps in peace, low bent by a tropical sea, 
Going far to the South, like the path of one who 
is free, 

Whence now you come once more. 

II 

Earth has no other land than that which feels 

eternal spring 
In bloom, that yet could teach your raptured throat 
to sing 

The songs you've learned: 
Just as an exile, wandering far to the East or West, 
Found, after seeing all the world, love's holy birth- 
place best 

And for it sadly yearned. 

Ill 

Your silver note gives to the early dawn of Spring 

its tone 
Of waking joy. And when the dream of loitering 
day is gone, 

Your good-night song 
Smoothes from the wrinkled soul all scars that toil 

has wrought, 
And pays the heavy toll where Sin has stoutly fought 
To do my conscience wrong. 



118 



IV 

With you, dear bird, the whole world sings. And 

where the sloping hill 
Touches the vale, ten thousand daisies lift their 
heads and thrill, 

Because of you. 
The rose is redder, poppies burn, each breeze that 

passes by 
Is perfume-laden, and, above, the May-time sky 
Turns to a deeper blue! 

V 

Sometimes I think in the mystical tomes of story 
A singer was lost, and, forever debarred from the 
glory 

That once she knew, 
Wandered to earth, with no art but her marvelous 

tune, 
And now sings for the comfort of men, in the stillness 
of June! 

Dear Thrush, is it you? 



119 



NIGHT 



Teach me, O Night, the mystery of thy ways. 

Thy dusk portends a shadow of the tomb — 
Thy silence broods a fellowship with gloom; 

Aged-Wisdom walks with thee — and with us stays. 

But for thy veil, drawn loosely o'er the earth 

No faithful star would teach us constancy; 
But for thy mists the ghost, Eternity 

Would ne'er walk forth — nor Solitude have birth. 

Old faiths are stayed and older creeds made strong 
By thy mute lips. Keligion warms within 
By thy slow fires that teach the fear of sin: 

Thy voice, the wind, now trembles in a song. 

II 

Akin to mystery and that unwaking sleep 

Which men call Death, aged symbol of the dead 
Thy impress falls, alike, on every head: 

Man's deed of good or ill thy silent watches keep. 

O wondrous gloom, with ne'er a word yet spoken 

Sad wistful Night, the lotus bloom of sleep 
Thy power endures, our wavering creeds to 
keep, 

Hold thou my purpose right, — my faith unbroken. 



120 



THE WIND 

1 am the spirit of freedom and power! 
As well I'm the soul of Awe and Unrest ; 
I go with my wings unhampered and dower 
My path, as one on Eternity's quest. 

I fly with the shadowy ghosts of men, 
Who long have slept in the deeps of the sea : 
These smile once more, as they laughed with Sin, 
When first they walked on the earth with me. 

I ruffle the sand where the shore-lines turn 
And whip the waves into furious spray: 
I rule the seas where the tropics burn, 
As well where eternal Winters stay. 

I am the spirit of Passion that gloats 

In the heart of one, whom Sin beguiles 

And I am the whisper that comes from the throats 

Of those who mate when Love-time smiles. 

But hush ! — and list ! — in the dead of night ! 
Did you a sound, as one who sighed? 
Then know, that with all my restless might 
I'm the ghostly voice of the souls who've died. 



121 



IN BOB-WHITE DAYS 

Between the hills the meadow sleeps ; 
Upon the hill the wheatfields lie 
Beneath the bluest summer sky, 
While just beyond the river creeps ; 
Time all his debts of Winter pays 
In these rare bob-white days. 

The hours are long, but bird and bee 
Are busy till the twilight glow, 
And even then reluctant go 
To nest and hive in yonder tree : 
An image of old Eden strays 
Around in bob-white days. 

Upon the upland where the hedge 

Slips down between the corn and wheat, 

There every blossom is complete, 

For summer always keeps her pledge: 

Now every breeze new joy conveys 

In golden bob-white days. 

Within the city's showy street 

Men toil beneath a heavy load, 

With want and envy as a goad, 

Toiling where greed and pretense meet: 

They never hear the lute that plays 

Out here in bob-white days. 



122 



TO-MOEEOW'S TASK 

Unsated wish means life. 

He who wants, has a work to do, 

The towering heights to climb 

And undiscovered lands yet to explore. 

Beyond lies the vale of realization, 

With its lotus perfume and lethean streams. 

But the dreams of the victor are not so sweet 

As the urging aspirations of him who climbs. 

It is the old, old legend of Alexander again, 

Eeaching the uttermost bounds of conquest, 

And weeping, alone, for other tasks to do. 

The unpeopled wastes, that lay beyond, 

Offered no resistance to the pagan soldier; 

The glory of past victories paled sadly, 

Compared with the passion that urged unwon battles. 

"No worlds to conquer" was an Ultima Thule 

That meant despair to the warrior's heart. 

To the living soul there is no such thing as content. 
Every night brings dreams that must come true, 
The freshness of every dawn will awaken new 

ambitions, 
And every twilight will find tasks unfinished 
Which to-morrow must complete! 



123 



To the ardent soul a Heaven of absolute rest 

Is beyond the idea of endurance. 

An eternal Sabbath is beyond our comprehension. 

The millions of hope-wrought spirits the world has 

known, 
Would mutiny in a life of eternal ease 
And would plead for tasks, 
Such as the sweet old human world gave them. 

The unattained heights make life worth while. 

The God- given spirit to do is ever alive in the soul. 

Attainment only acts as a stimulus to do more. 

Every height reached gives zest for new effort. 

Always beyond lies a fairer country 

Toward whose shores the soul is ever turned. 

Herein is born man's greatest gift — 

The spirit of Hope, without whose aid 

All human effort would be impossible, 

Life unendurable 

And unawaking sleep the burden of our prayers. 

In this restlessness, this ever pressing forward 

To woo, to win, to conquer, 

Man finds his closest kinship to divinity. 

In this spirit is our claim to immortality. 

This is part of the great Master's soul in us. 

Creating new worlds through eternal ages himself, 



124 



God has given man this spirit of creation, 

Of conquest and of untold longings, 

Which even accomplishment itself never satisfies. 

Happy is he who possesses this gift in abundance. 

His kinship to the divine is doubly close, 

Though the burden he must bear is heavy. 

To him there is no haven where sails are furled, 

No journey's end where the tent is pitched. 

His is the eternal, ceaseless wish to do. 

And even when his tired body 

Shall become brother to the dust, 

His soul shall start anew on its journey of conquest, 

The end of which 

The eternal years alone shall mark. 

GOD HAS BEEN GOOD 

God has been good in what He has not given 

The things from me withheld 

By His all-knowing hand 

Leave me far more content 
Than had He all these gifts most lavish sent. 

Large wealth, exultant power and fame 
His will denies ; 
And yet, in somehow-wise, 
His bounty unto me has freely given 
And sweet content to walk along my path, 

With these, dear friend, what joy one mortal hath! 



125 



THE PINES OF LEXINGTON 

"There is a weird music in the vast pine forests of Lexing- 
ton, in middle Carolina, ghostly and akin to the cry of wander- 
ing souls." — Hayne. 



Where the high lands make their turning to the coast 

plains white and low, 
Stand the armied pine tree forests, yearning, waving 

to and fro — 
Talking, like some living mortal, over sin, or task 

undone — 
Friendly trees of blissful childhood — singing pines 

of Lexington. 

II 

Through all the years I've wandered, like an exile, 

trouble-tossed — 
All the wealth of youth I've squandered, all the creeds 

I've made and lost, 
Leave me yet a faith unshaken and the strength my 

soul has won 
From the sturdy, steadfast teaching of the pines of 

Lexington. 

Ill 

Through a hundred years of Winter — through a 

hundred years of Spring 
They have stood, no weak repenter, but the same 

unchanging king — 
Baring face and form to duty, trusting in one faithful 

God- 
Teaching life's sublimest beauty — strength of root and 

strength of sod ; 
Giving, living, blooming, laughing — alike in shadow, 

or in Sun — 
Faithful to the creed of ages — those tall pines of 

Lexington ! 

126 



IV 

High above the laureled forest loomed clear each 

mighty head — 
Tall, serene, unflinching — never knowing doubt or 

dread; 
While about each top the fury of every storm was 

drawn, 
Yet it caught the last of sunset and the first light of 

dawn. 

V 

I have listened in the night-time to the wind among 

the leaves, 
Talking, moaning, saying things, like a weary soul 

that grieves: 
Yet these monarchs never falter, through the centuried 

age of time 
But, like stalwart things of duty, stood aloof, alone, 

sublime ! 

VI 

Sturdy masters of my Southland ! — teachers not by 

word but deed — 
Ye have given to me something that is holier than a 

creed : 
Ye have taught me faith to duty, though a task 

remains undone, 
Tall, serene, unflinching, faithful pines of Lexington. 



127 



ANEMONE 

It is because 

You break all laws 
And bloom before the cold gray oak 
One tiny leaf -bud has broke 

To mark the Winter's pause ; 
Or yet before the alder trees 
Have swung their catkins to the breeze 

That you should be 
Sweet messenger of Spring to me, 

Dear, shy Anemone? 

I wonder why, 

Beneath the sky 
Of Winter clouds and Winter gloom, 
While other plants are yet in tomb, 
That you should catch the first, glad ray 
Of coming Springtime's happy day. 

In your dear face 

Of dainty grace: 
Why mother Nature should agree 

That you should bloom 

Amid the gloom, 

Dear, shy Anemone. 



128 



Dear, shy Anemone. 

You always seem to me 
Like spirit of some troubled bride 
Whose lover in the long past died; 
So coming to earth before 
The sleep of other flowers is o'er, 
You look within the woods to see 

If he 
Would not again fall quite in love 

With thee, 

Dear, shy Anemone. 

COME, WALK WITH ME 

Who walks the ways of sweet content 

Outward and back again, 
Who feels the thrill that Joy has sent 

O'er all Love's soft domain! 

Whose nights are filled with music sweet 
And days with ne'er a pain, 

Where perfume or rare blossoms meet 
Adown Love's fair domain! 

Come walk with me this little while 

Across the amber plain 
And learn with Joy and me to smile, 

Content in Love's domain. 



129 



THE WIDE, SWEET WORLD OF 
MEMORY 

We sit beside the hearth-stone 

Where the ftre-lightfs ruddy glow 
Brings back the faded pictures 

From the realm of long ago, 
And I smoke my pipe in silence, 

As a star comes out in the west, 
But never a word is uttered 

From the lips of my silent guest. 



KOSALIND 

Ah! how I yet recall the blessed day 
When we together walked Love's holy way ; 
Strange, unseen lutes made music in the wind 
Because of you, dear Eosalind. 

The stolid years have crowded thick and fast ; 
Your pictured face is buried in the past, 
Yet when the skies of every Springtime bend, 
The lutes still play for Rosalind. 

Ah Fate! divorce my fortunes, if you will — 
Take house and lands, but this much leave me still- 
That I may hear until my journey's end 
The lutes that play for Rosalind. 

HAS GONE THE SILENT WAY 

Yon moon looks down on you and I, 
And then for one in vain: 
Once three of us were passing by 
But now she sees but twain. 

Alas! from out some sad-robed night, 
When busy day is done, 
The moon will cast her mellow light 
This way and find but one. 

And after some fair Junes have passed 
The moon will look this way, 
Of there who walked, behold, the last 
Has gone the silent way. 



133 



LEGACIES 

I have the summer sun to warm and smile 
on me. 

Blue skies to look upon 
I have the breadth and width of shining 
sea, 

And twilight gold when day is done: 
A few warm friends with me to converse hold 

Beside the ingle-nook — 
Old memories, too, and stories yet untold 

From many a friendly book : 

With these to bless life's bending firmament 
Who would not smile — who would not be 
content ? 

A PEAYER 

Dear God, when day runs swiftly in its might 
With all its glitter and its gaudy haze, 
Its mockish pretense and o'er crowded ways. 

My baser self stalks proudly up the height, 
And I forget Thy constant, watchful sight, 

That, like a sentry, ever with me stays. 

But when the night draws close its ebon veil, 
To hush the laughter and the noisy shout, 
And silence fills the empty street without, 

I see Thy stars beyond the tumult sail, 

Lo! then I turn repentant, sad and pale 

To plead Thy blessing ere the lights go out! 



134 



A SONG IN THE NIGHT 

I 

A weird, sweet gloom, the perfumed Southern night 

Envelope hill and vale, 
While far away, upon a sea of light, 

Star-craft in wonder sail. 

Along the hedgerow crimson poppies blaze 

Into red passion's fire, 
The primrose lifts its cup in purple haze 

Filled with the night's desire. 

So tense the silence, so profound its peace 

That where the zephyrs went 
Their noiseless feet the tangled vines release 

In loving wonderment. 

A clump of myrtles bloomed along the hill, 

One strange bouquet of white, 
These, with the moon and starlight, seemed to fill 

The mystery of night. 

night of silence, slumber of the soul 

Of eager, restless day, 

1 marvel not yon bird could not withhold 

Its love-impassioned lay. 



135 



II 



Somehow the slender bands of sleep 

Untangled as I heard 
Faint echoes through my window creep 

Of singing mocking-bird. 

I leaned without the casement far 

To hear each love- spent note : 
Then some one left the gates ajar 

Through which old mem'ries float. 

Ill 

The years slipped back to other days, 
Each bar of song was twined about 
With one lost face, within whose gaze 
Old dreams and hopes went out. 

The years slipped back, I knew not how, 
I only knew I heard a song: 
Then thought of some one's spoken vow 
And knew that love is strong. 

I wondered not that tears should fall; 
Who would not sadly weep as I 
Should some one from the hedgerow call 
Who long has dwelt on high? 



136 



MAGDALENE 



Listen, the angels are calling, calling, 
Their tears for some poor sister are falling: 

Such tears of grief by immortals are shed 
Only when some lone, unfortunate head, 
Pressed by a crown, made of thorns so appalling, 
Dies on the Calvary where He has bled. 

See, yonder the world goes happily by, 

Lifting its head of self -righteousness high. 
Like Pharisees old, the better than thou, 
They pass, but to others no virtue allow: 

Content with self they breathe not a sigh 

For her who is dead in oblivion now. 

II 

Within a tinselled room 

Gaudy and full of gloom, 
No mother's hand to soothe the weary brow, 
No father's look, with pity in it now, 
So young she died ; with strangers all about 
To watch and weep as life went slowly out. 

The house was marked for sin 

And no one entered in 
Save they, who of her crimson world were part. 
No priest or prelate found it in his heart 
To minister within a house unclean, 
Where slept this Christ-forgiven Magdalene. 



137 



Ill 

I saw the lone procession pass 
That bore her to a pauper's grave 
And marveled one so young, alas, 
Could die, as dies the brave. 

The few who followed in the wake, 
Where gaudy coffin led the way, 
Shed tears of grief for love's own sake, 
Few feel and weep as they 

Who walk the bitter ways of sin 
Like weeping Magdalene of old, 
For when the good Christ enters in 
Their utmost guilt is told. 



Beside the grave no prelate stood 
The simple rights of death to read, 
No Pharisee, or righteous could 
Afford her cause to plead. 

They left her in a pauper's grave, 
Where violets of purple grew, 
But Christ a royal welcome gave: 
She entered with the few. 



138 



THE ENCHANTED ROAD 

Where silent pines guard well its course between 

The shy arbutus vines, 
With canopy o'erhead of lacy green, 

Th' enchanted roadway twines. 

With me she walked this pathway of delight, 

Blessing its sands of gold, 
When youth and joy and springtime all unite 

Love's glory to unfold. 

Long since she walks beside a fairer shore 

Where roses never fade, 
And sacred is the road forevermore 

By her sweet presence made. 

With careless feet, along its rain-washed sands 

Men, passing in and out, 
Go day by day, nor see the pleading hands 

That beckon there about; 

Nor hear the whisper in the grief-swept trees 

That meeting overhead, 
Embrace, like some one, who in silence grieves 

For its beloved dead. 



139 



DREAMS OF YESTERDAY 

Where the sunset glory lingered in the Autumn's 

crimson glow, 
With a glance she swept the meadows, where the 

shadows deeper grow, 
But she did not see the shadows, nor the phantoms 

there at play, 
For her busy soul was dreaming all her dreams of 

yesterday. 

Brow of girlhood, once so tender, now all marked 

with lines of care, 
Hand of Time, forever busy, left his print of sorrows 

there ; 
Auburn hair, a woman's glory, now bestrewn with 

threads of gray, 
While she dreamed in silent wonder all her dreams 

of yesterday. 

Once again she heard the whisper of a lover at her 

side, 
Once again she felt the blushes maiden shyness could 

not hide ; 
Then she closed her eyes in silence, like one bowing 

down to pray, 
Blessing Fate for leaving still her sacred dreams 

of yesterday. 

Mingled with life's sweetest music, woven as a silver 

string, 
Comes an echo, soft and tender, in the lisp of one 

sweet thing: 
And the Mother eyes grow pensive, as they wander 

far away, 
Seeing yet the baby laughter in her dreams of 

yesterday. 



140 



She has lived to golden Autumn, through Life's Spring 

and Summertime, 
She has weighed the joy of living, in its innocence 

and prime ; 
She has learned that Love, the Master, sings the 

softest roundelay 
And is fairest of her idols in the dreams of 

yesterday. 

MY SILENT GUEST 

We sit beside the hearth-stone, 

Where the fire-light's ruddy glow 
Brings back the faded pictures 

From the realm of long ago, 
And I smoke my pipe in silence, 

As a star comes out in the west, 
But never a word is uttered 

From the lips of my silent guest. 

And I hear as she sits beside me, 

The rustle of silken dress 
And upon my burdened shoulder 

A vanished hand is pressed; 
The perfume of one sweet Summer 

Comes back with a memory blest, 
But never a word is spoken 

From the lips of my silent guest. 

I stretch my hand in the stillness, 

To touch the head of brown, 
Praying a look of welcome 

From the dreamy eyes cast down, 
And a word from the lips so tender 

That would come as a message blest, 
But never a word is uttered 

From the lips of my silent guest. 

141 



And so we sit in the stillness, 

Alone through the blessed night, 
Until each faded ember 

Is lost in the coming light 
Of the gaudy-mantled morning 

And I wake in the hush of dawn 
To stretch my hands in pleading, 

But my silent guest is gone. 



A TWILIGHT HYMN 



A Summer twilight, glory-wrought and still, 

Dim shadows on the hill; 
The meadow brush, full bloom with scented things 

A-whir with weary wings ! 

Beneath a sky, low-bent with silent stars, 

One stands beside the bars 
And lifts a song, full-flowing to the brim 

In penitential hymn. 

II 

The distant hills caught up the sweet old song, 

In echoes swift along, 
Till notes, like those from some celestial lyre, 

Came down and set on fire 
The singer's soul. And when the last note died 

Across the meadow's side 
Mght folded all, in sleep, beneath her wing, 

Dreaming of those who sing. 



142 



KOSABELLE 



Where lies that vast, unmeasured height 
Whence you have gone, dear Eosabelle, 

Through which you took your last, long flight? 
You know the pathway well : — 

Was it beset with clouds of night, 

Or flooded with a golden light 
Which from Elysium fell? 

II 

Was it alone you traveled there 

Through that uncharted realm of space? 

Or did some angel's presence care 
For all your needs, in that long race 

From earth and love and heart-things fair 

And brush away the silent tear, 

That must have stained your holy face ! 

Did you not pause to look away 

From those dim heights to earth again — 
To where the mortal shadows lay 

All mixed with joy and love and pain, 
And turn your heavenward course astray 
To taste love's sting, for one short day, 

And bear the crimson of its stain? 



143 



Ill 

The streets are new to your bright eyes 
And all bewildering the ways of gold — 
So far unlike the earthly paths of old 

That in the silence I can hear replies 

Unto my prayer: — Somehow I hear your sighs! 

The vast, wide sweep that circles far 
Your horizon is all too wide 
To house that love which used to hide 

In closer bounds, beneath a mortal star, 

That flamed my soul and made you what you are. 

The old, sweet thoughts of time's corrupted earth 
Must come to you like phantoms pale — 
Must come and plead, yet no avail 
Have they to move you from your newer birth, 
Nor waken in my soul one note of mirth. 

IV 

Rest by the golden gate, dear Rosabelle, 

There rest and wait : — 
Soon I shall scent the yellow asphodel 

That waves its plumes about your new estate; 
And when our hands shall meet across the golden bar 
Eternity, alas ! will be too fleet 
In which my soul may tell 
Its love for you — Its love for what you are ! 



144 



BEOKEN IDOLS 

I 

Since three decades, three long decades, out where 

the coarse world swings 
In its swirl of war, of love and trade, where the 

flute of Mammon sings, 
I walk once more by a garden wall that encircles 
the holiest things. 
The arch of heaven, just as of old, bends earthward 

over all, 
The clustered sun-rays come as full and on the 

blossoms fall: — 
From out the mass of weeds the ghosts of other 
springtimes call. 

II 

Across the field, two leagues away, the same sad 

river runs, 
Slipping between the silent hills that count the 

setting suns — 
Beyond, a stretch of withered pines stands out like 
skeletons. 
Here in the garden tangled vines in wild confusion 

grow : 
Down yonder path the dainty feet of other 

summers go — 
And here I count my losses, all, no man shall ever 
know. 



145 



Ill 

The sea lies there, beyond that stretch of coral-colored 

sand; 
Whose shore line running far is like some magic, 

mystic land — 
Whose moan is filled with sorrow, which my soul 
can understand. 
Is it her voice that mingles soft, with every lapping 

wave 
That breaks upon the beaches, there, a part of her 

young grave ! 
Or is it only wishing so for one I love and crave? 

IV 

She was fairer than the meadows, fairer than the 

April skies, 
All my world of youthful glory shone within her 

witching eyes: — 
Where she went I gladly followed, where she dwelt 
was paradise. 
But the jealous sea, enamored, longed to have her 

for his bride 
Where the nameless, sea-winged mystics in the 

coral valleys hide, 
While my soul, like Juda's master, on its cross was 
crucified. 



146 



The day is still afresh in mind, when I knew the 

good ship sailed: 
The flood of years, nor dust of time its memory has 

assailed : 
The wonder of her love and mine, remain as then, 
unveiled : 
But when the wreckage, whipped and torn along 

the shore was spread 
And the sole escaping sailor brought message of 

the dead 
The weight of Age and Doubt and Death was laid 
upon my head. 

VI 

Like exiled waters of the sea, held captive in some 

green lagoon, 
That, restless, wait in idleness beneath the sultry 

afternoon, 
Hear yonder waves dash on the rocks and long to 
mingle in their swoon 
Of wild, free life, on alien coasts; thus restless 

captive, I 
Bewail the bonds that hold me fast, that will not 

let me fly 
And find my silent dead, somehow, somewhere, 
in some new sky. 



147 



VII 

Since then I hate the treachery of every wave that 

scars the main: 
I hate its storms, I hate its calms, I hate its stern 

disdain 
Of human sorrow; and I hate the shore that bears 
its stain ; 
For not one spot around the world by every clime 

and shore 
On which the breakers fall and seethe and wash 

and wail and roar, 
But reveals some broken idol, lost to worship 
evermore. 

VIII 

Until this grief came in my soul, with all its poisoned 

stings 
And shadowed as some fabled bird, with black ill- 
omened wings, 
I had my god, my church, my creed, my love for 
holy things: 
But now, bereft, my soul is wrapped in questioning 

and doubt, 
I cannot fix abiding faith on aught within, or out; 
My anchor lost, I drift, alas! like derelict about. 



148 



IX 

Is there a god who takes away the thing for which 

we yearn? 
Who daily listens unto prayer, but who will not 

return 
Out of his wealth the simple gifts for which the soul 
may burn, 
All idols which the East has known through ages 

far away 
Have listened, all unheeding, as pagans kneel to 

pray, 
And answer not. Can I believe my God as cold 
as they ? 



Sometimes I think I have no God. My slender faith 

hangs by a thread. 
I look upon yon smiling sea and know that she is 

dead, 
And then I feel the frost of time grown whiter on 
my head. 
So out of all my weariness I cast about to find 
Some stay on which to rest my faith, stronger 

than man or mind : 
'Tis then to love the old faith more my spirit 
is inclined. 



149 



XI 

"Can all be chance? Are prayers in vain? Alas! 

are chanted creeds 
All writ to ease the soul of him, undone by cruel 

deeds, 
Are churches, altars only meant to fill the sinner's 
needs?" 
I asked my soul thus, burdened with a grief it 

could not bear: 
Somehow, unanswering silence to the pleading 

waited there, 
Somehow, I lost old human faith in life's old 
stronghold — prayer. 

XII 

All through ten thousand years and more no sun 

has yet forgot to rise — 
All through ten thousand years and more no calm 

of nightly skies 
Has yet forgot a single star — and so the destinies 
Of sun and star, the April rain and winter's frosted 

snows 
Must have some godly hand that holds the guiding 
reins and knows 

The paths of all things great or small the path 

which each one goes. 



150 



XIII 

There are some treasured playthings left about this 

mansion old and gray; 
Along the garden wall still grow the sweet, old 

blossoms of her day: 
Secure I keep her pictured face, which fate nor death 
can take away. 
Along this walk I told my love, along this walk 

she told me hers; 
Beside this gate said good-bye, where I first saw 

her tears: 
These Memory's soul has loved and kept throughout 
the wasted years. 

XIV 

The shadow falls aslant my path — 'tis there where 

dawn be-lights the skies, 
And when the twilight curtains fall along the West 

it lies: 
At night it deepens and be- dims the sight of weary 
eyes; 
And yet, through all, I keep my god, my creed 

and on the altar lay 
My daily sacrifice and guard love's flame afresh 

each day: 
These fate, nor man, nor envious sea, can ever 
take away. 



151 



EAKTH'S SADDEST NIGHT 

The stars over Palestine were dim that night. 
Not because of any obscuring clouds, 
Or silvery mist, or plant-refreshing rain. 
It was the dry season and the atmosphere 
Was crystal-clear, without fleck or flaw. 

The stars were dim because of their own tears — 
Tears unbidden, which could not be restrained. 
The dew was heavy on the olive leaves 
And on the sparse grass were crystal beads of water. 
For the night wept, as well as the far away stars 
And the very darkness seemed to groan in agony. 

Down in a garden one lone figure bowed. 

The world has ever since loved the olive trees 

Because they shadowed His grief, in part only, 

From the far- dimmed stars and the night. 

No grief had ever touched a soul that was so keen, 

So all-powering, as that which reached the Master 

On that saddest night the world has ever known. 

Desertion by friends would be bearable — 

The shadow of to-morrow's cross could be endured; 

The cut of the nails and the thrust of spears 

Could all be borne — but beyond these, 

Alas ! the Master felt a keener grief ! 



152 



Through, long ages the world had sinned. 

Backward lay the savage cruelties 

Of unrecorded savage wars. 

The cry of innocent and unprotected children, 

Of lone murders in the silent night, 

Of sin-stained women in despair, 

Of a world's savagery and open guilt, 

All came to the Master in a single wail — 

Pleading for mercy and absolution. 

It was the total of a world's grief and its pain, 

The total of its crimes and atrocities, 

The acme of its secret murders 

And its flagrant, open abortions, 

Stretching backward through the ages. 

The suffering of forty centuries was laid upon one soul. 

That was the secret of the Master's plea : 

"If this cup may pass, O, Father." 

No wonder the stars were dim with tears, 

No wonder the tropic night wept heavily, 

No wonder the darkness groaned out its grief, 

As the Master's prayer was heard around a world. 

Earth's saddest night will always live 
In romance, story and song 
As the tenderest, sweetest memory 
The world has ever known. 



153 



GOD GEANT THE YEARS GO SLOW 

God grant the years go slow 
God grant the days be long, 
And lazily fall the twilight glow, 
Linger the Even-song. 

Yon moon that fills the west 
With its silver-tinted gleams, 

Will quickly sink to rest 

And leave the world to dreams: 

So to-morrow's sun will rise 
Out of the gaudy dawn 
And fill the Summer skies, 
Then sink — and a day is gone. 

I dread the day, Sweetheart, 
When I shall kiss your hand 

Farewell, and alone we part, 
And go to another land ; 

For beyond the little way 

We see with human eye, 
Of it all we can only say: 

We live, we love, we die. 

So I pray that the years go slow, 
God grant the days be long 

And lazily fall the twilight glow, 
Sing slowly the Even-song. 



154 



PRAYER 



The Moslem on the burning sands of the desert, 
Retreating from some nameless crime, 
Or, in extremis from heat and thirst, 
Knelt beside a lone palm tree 
To bare his soul in prayer. 

He uttered but few words, yet every line on his face 
Betokened contrition and the storm of feeling 
That had driven his sin-tossed soul 
Into the haven of supplication. 

He condones none of his guilt: 
He hides nothing, but tells his unseen god 
That he is more sin-spotted than any Moslem 
Who curses the desert with his presence. 

He bares his soul to the merciless sun, 

He strikes his uncovered breast 

And with head thrown back, 

With arms wide open, he faces the East 

To receive that unfailing pardon 

Of which he is unworthy. 

The Moslem prays! 

II 

In the gray dawn of a tawdry room, 

Disheveled by the marks of debauch and revelry, 

A woman awakens from troubled sleep. 

The hand of dissipation has touched her face 

And laid the marks of keen regret 

Where the lines of beauty should be. 



155 



She thinks long and tensely in the dim light. 

Kecollections of girlhood and girlhood joys 

Come back to blight her awakening. 

Her breast heaves with emotion 

And unbidden tears well into the beautiful eyes. 

Slowly she rises and down beside the couch of disgrace 

She bows the head of black tresses 

In a Magdalene's prayer of repentance. 

Like the Moslem, there is no condoning her sin. 

All of her guilt lies weighty upon her young soul. 

She feels unworthy, even to pray, 

And yet, in the dim light of her gaudy room, 

With its simple trinkets of her fallen life, 

There come the gentle words of the Master: 

"I condemn thee not, go, sin no more." 

The Magdalene prayed. 

Ill 

Within the splendor of God's temple, 

With its Bible, its altar and its sacramental feast, 

A man knelt on velvet cushions 

And read the cold lines of prayer 

Printed in a cold book: 

Beading in unison with a liveried minister 

Who stood by a golden altar. 



156 



Rich hangings were about the windows 

And the smell of incense was in the air. 

But alas ! the cold words from the cold book, 

Uttered by self -loving Pharisee lips, 

Went no further than the door of the temple. 

The spirit of no tense feeling, or repentance was there 

To carry them further; for self-love and content 

Filled the man's soul. 

The prayer was a mockery 

And brought no answer. 



GUILT 

Bowed and bare to the lash's cut 
The slave bent low to take his punishment ; 
And when he sought repose within his hut 
Even amid his pain, somehow, he found content. 
But in a mansion where the conscience sting 
Sent through a soul its taunting of unrest 
Alas ! the bird of guilt would not take wing 
But made its home within the victim's breast. 



157 



A CAKOLINA GAEDEN 

Larkspur, hollyhock and the constant phlox 

Blossom along the wall, 
Outside whose gate the hand of some one knocks 

And unseen footsteps fall. 

Down yonder path gray pinks and asters meet 

Where foxgloves mix about: 
The rose vine climbs upon the wall to greet 

The daisy blooms without. 

All day gardenias and the jasmine vine 

Distill and scent the air 
With odors that the blessed past entwine 
With one no longer there. 

Within a clump of old mock orange trees, 

Which to the past belong, 
The wild thrush sings a minor note and weaves 

A sadness to his song. 

Garden of mem'ries where the past is kept 

Afresh with bloom and vine, 
For her you leave no blessed day unwept: 

Each blossom is her shrine. 



158 



SINCE DINAH WENT AWAY 

To-night in negro exile, in dis far off Northern clime, 
I dreamed I saw de cabin home of old 

Down beside de Southern river and de eve was Summer 
time, 
And de story of my sorrow there is told. 

De whippoo-will was singing and de breeze was 
blowing slow, 
De air was full of perfume of de co'n, 
But de shadows fall so heavy and de stars kind 
hanging low, 
'Cause Dinah, just my Dinah, she is gone. 

No softness in de twilight since my Dinah went away, 
No twinkle in de stars dat shine for love, 

And de dog, he look much sadder and kinder pine 
away, 
Since Dinah died and went up there above. 

De cabin it is just de same to others, I suppose, 
The fields as green and other things as gay, 

But a gloom is in de twilight and a darkness in my 
soul, 
Since Dinah, just my Dinah, went away. 



159 



BESIDE THE CONGAKEE 

Somehow to-night old longings fill 
The saddened heart that burdens me, 
While pictured glories softly thrill, 
As down the wistful past I see 

A cottage in the meadows, still, 

Beside the Congaree. 

I lift the veil that falls between 
The now and then, and clearly see 
The boy who romped upon the green 
Of swarded hill that used to be 

His outer world, from which was seen 

The wondrous Congaree. 

Out from the cottage, nestling there, 
I sent my ships upon the sea, 
And on the hill when June was fair 
I spun my dreams of destiny. 

The ships are on the sea, somewhere, 

Beyond the Congaree. 

To-night I know the moon-beams fall 
Upon the hill — upon the lea — 
I almost hear the night birds call 
Unto their mates ; once more I see 

The phantom pines, so gaunt and tall, 

Beside the Congaree. 



160 



Fate may divorce me of my gold, 
May keep my ships upon the sea, 
But memory better things can hold, 
And these are mine, by destiny 

To feel youth's golden dreams unfold 

Beside the Congaree. 

Long as the rose shall seek the sun, 
So long as gulls shall love the sea, 
So shall my tender longings run 
Where flows the willowed Congaree 

Where dreams of untried days were 
spun 

Beside the Congaree. 

THE COAST OF DESTINY 

Ho! sailor of the treacherous seas, what port is in 

thine eye? 
Some friendly shore thy vision sees beneath a sun-lit 

sky; 
The softest wind thy canvas fills and holds thy 

pennant true 
But watch for storms from off the main these peaceful 

waters brew. 

How many craft have left the shores with winds like 

these to-day 
And passed the capes of Thithermore, which bound 

the outer bay, 
Then through the years, as men grow old and women 

wait and weep 
No story of their fate comes back from off the 

faithless deep ! 

Ah ! craftsmen all we spread the sail abreast the 

softest breeze 
And steer across the unmarked trail of fable-haunted 

seas: 
Some steer toward the port of fame, some pleasure's 

beckons see, 
All reach one coast, despite their aim, the coast of 

destiny. 

161 



THE MASTEE IN THE GAEDEN 

I 

The crimson guilt of all the world was laid 
Upon the Master's unoffending head, 
Thence Sorrow him into the garden led, 
With Grief and Silence in the dark he prayed: 

The olive trees alone would shelter him 

Within that hour so dim. 

II 

His faithful few, alas, were wrapp'd in sleep; 

Men never court companionship with grief, 

In prayer, alone, the soul must find relief, 

Peace comes at last when one has learned to weep; 

Thus prayed the Master, underneath the tree 

In dark Gethsemane. 

Ill 

The waning stars seemed very far away, 
The olive leaves beheld him as he wept, 
And o'er the kneeling form close vigil kept 
Until the waiting East was streaked with gray: 

Then from his grief the Master, turning, said: 

"Sleep on;" the East was red. 



162 



THE WOKSHIPPERS 

One knelt before a god of stone 
And one before a god unseen, 
Yet each his guilt would there atone 
And leave his conscience clean. 

Another looked upon the sun 
Implored its heat and dazzling light 
To bless the new day, just begun, 
Until the footfall of the night. 

Within a temple's costly shrine, 

All wrought with gold and silver laid 

Another worshipped the divine 

And like the rest, devoutly prayed. 

In North and South, in East or West 
Each soul his longing will declare, 
Yet he, of all, will worship best 
Whose soul is in his prayer. 



163 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 

Wonder of water and wonder of sky, 
Wonder of dusk, when a storm portends; 
Wonderful shores that contented lie 
And almost meet where the river ends! 



BEAUTY AND SOUL 

Was it because my forms of beauty molded 
Were all so rare, no face my soul could thrill, 
That in despair the book of love I folded 
And rested in my search — come good or ill ? 

Life's road was thronged with all the outward graces 
Since mother Eve sent forth her children rare, 
And yet my eyes looked on for fairer faces 
But, somehow, no one seemed to pass me there. 

In after years a voice was softly spoken, 
That while its music past me seemed to roll, 
I found, at last, the gods had sent this token: 
"Know, what you seek is not a face — but soul." 

Time gives us beauty in the April's blossomed glory ; 
Each tree stands out with offerings rich, but mute, 
Yet, after all, we read life's richer story 
In soft October's gift of ripened fruit. 



167 



GYPSY CEEED 

Call it the faith of Omar, or the dreamer's visioned 

dream, 
The nameless creed of the Hobo — passing idly by 
Yet I laugh and dance in sunshine, beside the singing 

stream, 
With a heart as full of gladness, as yonder open sky. 

The blood of the care-free Harlequin still pulses 

in my veins 
And ever urges onward, from day to day 
I have no time for sorrow by light or summer rains 
I have no time for toiling, yet plenteous time for play. 

When the long, sweet day is ended and star-craft 

fill the sky 
My camp is in the wildwood, where all is still ; 
There lanterned lights I swing about, so pilgrims 

passing by 
May catch the gypsy spirit and learn the creeds that 

thrill. 

Sleep ends before the dawning, ere yet the East is 

gray, 
Adventure then awakens, alert, but slow 
And ere I fare-forth singing, upon a care- free way 
I strew the path with blossoms to point you whence 

I go. 



168 



A VENDER OF DREAMS 

He stood upon the corner in the city's crowded place 
Selling his pale white lilacs from distant country 

lanes 
With the tan of April sunshine all fresh upon his 

face — 
Dealing in God's own treasure to help his scanty 

gains. 

"Come and buy the lilacs, I'm selling dreams today 
Fresh from the fields of Paradise, with dew upon 

them yet. 
They will take you from the city to meadows far 

away, 
Where once their April coming you can nevermore 

forget." 

Then some one bought his lilacs, some one dressed in 

silks and laces 
And took them where the sick ones lay, amid their 

grief and pain 
And then, behold! the light of joy came back upon 

their faces, 
To see God's promise of the Spring in lilac blooms 

again. 

GATES OF TWILIGHT 

Close, gates of twilight; leave me with the night, 
To counsel take and set my soul aright 
Of errors that beguiled me in the light, 

This, e'er I seek repose. 
Close with the softness of an angel's tread, 
Leaving without no deeds of wrong to dread, 
No spoken word that I might wish unsaid; 

Dear gates of twilight, close. 

169 



YOUTH AND AGE 



A Star comes up with the dawning 

And one in the evening sky ; 
One has its path through the blue to run, 

And one, with the day, must die. 

II 

Youth looks at the Star of the dawning 
But Age at the Star in the west ; 

Youth hurries, his long, sweet race to run, 
But Age asks only rest. 



TO DOROTHY— EIGHTEEN 

I love the days when your smile and laughter 

Follow me on to the set of sun; 
And I pray that the years which come hereafter 

May hear your voice until life is done. 

In the garden of dreams where memories slumber 
And bless the years that lie between 

There grows for me no holier number 

Than this — when you reached your glad eighteen. 



170 



THE LOOM 

I 

The cold night slowly wanes 

And the wind, like clank of chains 

Battles the stubble along the village lanes: — 
Hoar frost is on the grass, 
And in the souls of those who pass, 
Going to toil, before the dawn, alas! 

II 

A bell on factory height 
Disturbs the quietude of night — 
That fills belated hearts with fright: — 
And where the long procession goes 
With souls, like stitfen'd hedges, froze, 
Each has its griefs and hidden woes! 

Ill 

No age of serf or slave, 

Of master, brute, or knave, 

To God's sweet world yet gave 
A servitude, with keener pain, 
Or hands bound with a stronger chain 
Than those, whose lives, by toil are slain. 



171 



IV 

The factory lights that glare 
Through winter's frosted air 
Beckon, alas! to roadways of despair: 
And the looms that ceaseless weave 
Their web and woof, achieve 

Joy for the rich alone 
And sorrow for these who grieve. 

V 

Say naught of the endless day 

In the shadowy mill of grey, 

Where toil is set to the tune of dull dismay ! 

Say naught of the little hands 

Which feed the endless strands 

That closer bind the helpless serf 

To wealth's unslaked demands ! 

VI 

The vesper bell has rung: 
The stars in the blue are hung : 
The day has left its sweetest songs unsung: — 
Back in the cold and the gloom, 
Back to a place called home 

The toilers go from the whirr and curse 
From the Moloch frown of the Loom. 



172 



THE TRAIL OF INHERITANCE 



The blood that flows in human veins 
Through long, long years, from sire to son, 
Begets and grows, in kindred strains, 
Where one life ends — and one's begun. 

The yellow locks of Swedish girl, 

The swarthy brow of Beduin 

Eepeats in distant baby's curl : 
Repeats in far-off deeds of sin. 

One cannot shun the heritage 
Some parent gave in ages past: 
While history turns its page on page 
The mark of birth goes to the last. 

II 

I've watched the fairest lily grow 
Within the garden, spring on spring, 
And when the April zephyrs blow 
It blossoms forth, the same sweet thing. 

I've seen the winds drive to an alien soil 
The crafty nettle — such a harmless looking thing — 
Yet distance changes not, nor new surroundings spoil 
Its pinkish bloom, which grows a deadly sting. 

Blood flows unchanged. For good or ill 
A thin veneer may cover up 
The inward passions ruling : still 
Each one must drink from parent cup. 



173 



IN THE DESERT 

The orient sky was dusted thick with stars: 

Some twinkled bright with lustre — some were dim 

Through mist of arid sands — and some to him 
Stood far away, like sentinel that bars 

The gates of home, beyond the desert's rim ! 

He looked toward the sea; the only sight 
Was one lone craft from Cyprus under sail — 

Leading to some far Grecian port a trail 

O'er chartless seas, through lonely tropic night, 

Straight homeward bound — he in the desert's jail! 

The hot winds blew from over-land and swept 
The sands beneath his feet, the breath from out 
his throat: 

Then just above a mirage seemed to gloat 

O'er his tired soul; while near a phantom crept, 

His last lone sight, ere with the dead he slept. 

The winds blew on — the soulless winds that know 
No mercy on the desert's face, but crave 

More desolation; and thus speeding onward — so, 
Beneath the stars they left an unmarked grave. 



174 



WOMAN 

The Master, in an idle, dreaming hour, 

Flushed with creation's power; 

Pleased with the work His skillful hands had 

done, 
Pleased with the sea, the land, the burning sun 
Which through the ages, at His word must run,, 

Looked for some task his fancy to beguile, 

Just for a little while. 

Of ponderous things: the earth, the sun, the sea. 

Full weary-souled was He. 

The storms were taught to guard the trackless 

main, 
The stars to rise, to shine and set again, 
The clouds to fill and weep the April rain: 

All things complete, the Master paused to play, 

Just for a little day. 

Out of the soft, responding clay He made 

A toy, with beauty laid; 

A woman's form, soft tinted and complete,. 
In which all lines of glory seemed to meet: 
And when, within, a heart began to beat 

The Master smiled. His playful task was best; 

Fairer than all the rest. 



175 



O POET, SING 



Sing ye, O man, ye poet men, sing 

Of lowly hearth and wooden lighted fire, 
Where life is such a lowly, simple thing, 

Unmoved by keen desire. 

Sing ye, O man, of those who know the soil 

Sing ye of faces browned by burning sun, 

Of hearts made strong by fellowship with toil 
Who God's own faith have won: 

Sing ye of fields, low horizoned by pines, 

Beyond whose tops no fervid wish may fly, 

Where, somehow, fate to lowly paths confines 
Slow feet afraid to try. 



THE UNBLESSED 

I pity him who walks alone, 

Life's prosy road, the lonesome way, 
Who finds no hands to greet him home 

At close of day. 

But more than this I pity him 
Who, after toil of day is o'er, 

Hears not the lisp of childish voice 
To greet him at his door. 



176 



THE DENIAL 

The night was cold and Peter's heart beat fast with 

new emotion, 
His lips were white and thin: 
The little court was noisy with to-morrow's strange 

commotion 
That stirred the hearts of men. 

"You know the man," a maiden spoke, "alas, you 

are forgetting," 
As Peter turned away; 
Then like one riven by some dread, brought on by 

old regretting, 
He heard the call of day! 

Down in his soul the Master's words came like the 

knell of sorrow 
And smote with sudden dread; 
"Ye will deny me thrice before the dawning of the 

morrow." 
Then lo ! the East was red ! 



177 



LOT'S WIFE 

Pausing she looked back: looked back where heat 

waves twirl 
Out of the desert's soul, above the sands ; 
Back o'er the waste, where little eddies whirl 
Of nomad winds, which blow from many lands. 

Was it the ingle-nook made dear by olden tales 
Oft told by husband, child, or comrade friends, 
Or dream, that like a ship in memory sails 
That held her feet, where love or duty ends? 

We all look back: some to a treasured toy 
Locked safe away within a hidden place ; 
And some recall an old remembered joy 
Which even yet may brighten Sorrow's face. 

Thus, censure not the lonely figure left 

Upon the plain, face wrapped in tense desire, 

Defying all, and yet of all bereft 

Amid the glare and flame of Sodom's fire. 



178 



DEEAMS OF CHILDHOOD 

Somewhere I've read in an olden book 

This legend, gray with the moss of age ; 

That a traveler, weary in step and look, 

Went forth on his last long pilgrimage. 

At the golden gate, all deftly wrought, 

He paused, in awe, at its beauty rare, 

For in his hands no gift he brought 

That would pass him in through the portals fair, 
Save this: that he carried within his soul 
The blessed love of a childish face, 
The only thing in the scanty toll 
Of an empty life that he could trace: 

But seeing the gift St. Peter said: 

"No richer thing can a mortal bring; 

Behold the gates wide open swing 

For one, whom a little child has led." 



179 



ON THE EOAD TO SLEEPY-TOWN 

On the road to Sleepy-Town, 

As the wondrous sun goes down, 
Little hands and little feet, 
Wearied out with play complete, 

Now would stop at every sound 

On the road to Sleepy-Town. 

Busy has the whole day been, 

From the dawn until its end 
And the gentle twilight glow, 
Where the weary feet now go, 
Falls like benediction down 

On the road to Sleepy-Town. 

Just ahead, the Gate of Dreams, 

Through the stillness casts its gleams: 
Just ahead the hand of sleep 
Reaches out to touch the cheek 

Of each little head of brown, 

Longing so for Sleepy-Town. 

Let me take you to my breast, 

Just this moment ere you rest, 
Let me hold the hands so sweet, 
As the daylight goes to sleep, 

Kiss the droopy eyelids down 

On the road to Sleepy-Town. 



180 



TO ONE SIXTEEN 



From the warm, white beach, where the Gulf of 

Aden lies 
Like a ruby waste, blue as a moslem's eyes; 
From the Red Sea sands that wash a tentless shore, 
To the far, far East, where the desert closed the door 
To human trail; and where the caravan 
Paused in despair at the last white hut of man, 
A fairy brought all colors, new and old, 
To work and weave into your hair of gold. 

II 

From Egypt's gardens where the finest silk is spun 
And poppies catch all colors of the sun. 
Where desert waste distills in nightly dew, 
Her Crystals charged with every tropic hue, 
This fairy caught from underneath the skies 
The nameless charm and sparkle of your eyes. 

Ill 

Out of the South where blooms the scented Thyme, 

Where every sand is like a poet's rhyme ; 

From coasts where palms lean seaward in repose 

And every day dreams idly to its close 

Your goddess brought, within her dainty ships, 
The tempting languor of your girlish lips. 



181 



TO A LITTLE CHILD 

Dear Innocence, by sin yet undefiled 

Dear eyes of wonderment, 
I look along your pathway, rough and wild, 

With sun and shadow blent: 
Dear untried feet, tender and soft and white, 

Dear hands without a scar, 
How my strong love would hold you in its might 

And keep you as you are. 

Alas! I know the pitfalls that await 

Your dear untravelled feet, 
What sins shall snare, beyond sweet Childhood's gate 

Where will and duty meet: 
I know the heart- aches that will fill your soul, 

The bitter draught of sin, 
The broken idols, you must chance behold, 

Before the journey's end. 

Dear Innocence, if I could walk ahead, 

Along your untried way 
And feel its cutting stones and thorns instead 

Of you, from day to day; 
How I would shield you with my circling arms 

And wall you round about, 
My wishes guard, like some mysterious charm, 

Your going in and out ! 



182 



DAUGHTERS OF EVE 

Sappho 

Immortal Sappho ! daughter of the fabled Grecian sea, 
Where white-sailed ships went, filled with fruitful 

trade, 
Thy beauty scorched young Phaon's heart, while he 
On fluted reed earth's sweetest love-songs played. 

And so the notes this pristine lover sung 
Freshened the world's gray dawn, as April rain: 
About the lips of those who love, they clung 
Like kiss without a stain. 

IZEYL 

Came Buddha to the world in India's early dawn, 
Teaching surrender of Desire to passioned men; 
Some listened ; others to soft waiting arms were drawn, 
But few were turned from sin. 

Then from the mystic East appeared the fair Izeyl 
And danced for Buddha, passion in her art, 
Until the priest, enamored, knew full well 
A new god ruled his heart. 



183 



Balkis 

When from the Syrian desert Balkis came, 
Bringing her miles of every precious thing 
From Eastern lands; within her burned a flame 
Of fear, for Egypt's king. 

Yet when her splendor in the temple stood 
Before his gaze, departed all her fears, 
For Sheba's intuition understood 
That Solomon was hers. 



Cleopatra 

Beside the lotus waters of the lazy Nile 

Walked Cleopatra, looking far away, 

Where templed distance lengthened, mile on mile. 

Waiting his coming at the close of day. 

And when the Roman came from conflicts new, 
His face to hers, while Egypt's eyes were wet, 
The battered warrior, in her embrace, knew 
Ambition's sun had set. 



184 



TO SIDNEY LANIER 

Died September, 1881 

I 

The laurel hath no dread of future ills: 
The Winter's snows, nor Summers torrid sun 
Can wilt its leaves ; thus, lo ! his glad heart thrills, 
In sweet content, o'er times last conflict won. 

II 

Our calm September weeps, as Autumn leaf 
Turns crimson all her gifts of harvest fruit, 
For he shall come no more to ease our grief, 
Nor sing for us, where Sorrow's lips are mute. 

Ill 

The wreath of fame, fears not the rust of years, 
Nor clamors for the gift of marble spire; 
We are content to smile through pity's tears 
Since he hath warmed our souls with music's fire. 



185 






SOLDIEES OF FEEEDOM 

Summer of 1918 

I 

Up from a land of gladness, content in the peace 
of living, 
You come, you come, at your country's call, from 
North and the South 
From East and the West, willingly all that is best 
within you giving, 
With the tan of your native sun on your brow and 
the kiss of Love on your mouth. 

II 

From the lowly cot and the lordly hall, you haste at 
the voice of Freedom calling, 
Fresh from the arms of a sweet girl's love, fresh 
from a mother's tears: 
As a single man you hasten, to aid where the brave 
are falling 
And save the soul of Freedom, through all the 
coming years. 

Ill 

Up from the busy street of trade and up from the 
lowly places 
With the flush of Peace upon your brows, you 
come, not asking why, 
Ready to give the best ye have — ah, God! these 
youthful faces! 
Ready to save the world for men — even if ye must 
die! 



186 



IV 

God bless you, men of the khaki — soldiers of 

Freedom's making; 
God bless your daring task, in the cause of human 

right, 
Although you leave behind a million warm hearts 

aching, 
Know you that the Nation stands with you in its 

love and all its might ! 

V 

I sometimes think, with awe, when the twilight's 

deeper turning 
Drifts from day into dark — of the hearthstones 

left alone; 
How the winter nights shall slowly wane, where 

desolate hearts are burning, 
Because ye Sons of Freedom are gone — are gone! 

VI 

You heard the call from across the seas, from the 
bloody fields of Flanders, 
You heard the sob of woman's cries, despoiled by 
the despot Hun; 
And up your manhood rises, to duty each one 
answers — 
No more to seek the roads of Peace, till Liberty's 
work is done. 



187 



AFTER— 1916 

I 

After this war is over, this nameless curse of the 

ages — 
When man is lashed with a whip that cuts and 

stings : 
After the Hun has soiled with blood all of history's 

pages 
Will the soul of man not turn to holier things ? 
Or, will the curse of the war degrade the hearts and 

homes of men 
And take us back for a thousand years to the age 

of sin? 

II 

Will men be braver, because of the year's slow 

turning 
They have spent, where the sound of the busy guns 

kept pace: 
Or, will they return with ghostly fears and yearning, 
With the pallor of Death still fresh upon their face? 
Will they come back from the fields where the demon 

laughter 
Of dying souls, has filled the air with dread: 
Their hearts all seared with hate, for the long years 

after, 
Wishing their fate had been the fate of the dead ? 

Ill 

Methinks when the shot-scarred remnants return to 

their homes again: 
Back to the waiting bosoms, back to the tear-stained 

eyes, 
That a song will thrill in the pulsing of the hearts 

long used to pain : 
That a prayer will rise in the voice from earth to 

the skies: 
Methinks Gethsemane's suffering, through which these 

left have trod, 
Will turn each soul of the warrior to the holier path 

of God. 

188 



INHERITANCE 



I cannot say from whence it came and some would 

tell, perhaps with shame ; 
But in my blood the warm South flows and fire of 

Eastern romance glows, 
And burns with steady flame. 

II 

The East forever calls to me; the olive and the lotus 

tree 
Spread their soft shade to rest upon 
My soul, scorched by the tropic sun ; 

Yet desert heat is always sweet 
Where scarlet flame and love are one ! 

Ill 

Perhaps, within some age of sin, 

My father passed as Beduin; 

Perhaps, within my veins there hide, 

The warm bloods of a Moslem's bride ; 

For this I know, the drowsy East 
And dreamy South, with fiery ways, 
Feed my desires, like kingly feast 
And through my blood forever plays. 



189 



AH ! BITTEE FATE 

Ah! bitter fate 

To have the dreams, 

Yet not the skill of brush or pen 
The vision's glories to translate: 

This is the heritage of sin ! 

Ah! bitter wait 

To see the glow 

Of grandeur pass before the eye ! 
The colors come too late, too late 

Before the dreams take wings and fly. 

We hear the notes 

Immortals sing, 

We hear the music of the spheres, 
But ere we grasp, each echo floats 
Adown the swift forgotten years. 

This is the price 

We mortals pay 

For that immortal part within: 
With flesh we shake the fateful dice 

And lo ! the flesh is sure to win ! 



190 



PILGKIM AND CAVALIEK 

I 

The pilgrim knelt upon the rock-bound coast, 

Lifting his voice in prayer ; 
From him the stillness heard no vaunting boast 

His coming to declare — 
For in his soul the peace of reason glowed 

And blessed his new abode. 

II 

The Cavalier from far Castilian shore 

Bestrode yon tropic beach, 
Athirst for land and all its golden store 

Seeming within his reach : 
No mercy his, but only greed and quest 

His mission in the West. 

Ill 

The tardy years grind slowly but repay 

The right and wrong of man: 
Where Pilgrim built upon the coast of gray 

His children now command; 
But all the coasts of Yucatan display 

Spain's glory in decay. 



191 






THE TYEANNY OF LAW 

I sometimes hate the tyranny of law 

Because my love of freedom is so wide. 

The very thoughts of locks and chains is awe 

To one who has no guilty act to hide. 

I watch the birds about my cottage gate 

And envy all the freedom they possess; 

I see the clouds that swiftly go or wait, 

And wonder why man's freedom should be less! 

There are no prisons for the daffodils 
That bless each day when blooming Spring abides, 
There are no chains to lock the rose that thrills 
With June's awaking, save the clasp of brides. 

Ah ! stupid man that he should be beset 

By hindrance which the things of Nature scorn; 

Why should his sturdy race, alas ! beget 

An offspring, of its widest freedom shorn. 

And thus I hate the tyranny of laws, 
The sight of prison wall, the clank of chain, 
All things that rob of liberty, because 
These bring to man his heritage of pain. 



192 



WHO PLANTS A TREE 

Who plants a tree beside the road 
Where man may rest his tired feet, 
Amid the Summer's sullen heat 
And ease his shoulder of its load, 
Well loved is he ! God blest is he ! 
Who plants a tree. 

He may have passed beyond recall 
When weary pilgrim by the way 
Its shade may find, at noon of day, 
Yet blessings on his soul will fall 
And you can see, how blest is he 
Who plants a tree. 

So long as Spring shall wake the green 
Of fluttering leaves upon its limb, 
A deeper hue will burn for him. 
And passing years that lie between 
Will blessings be, for such as he 
Who plants a tree. 



193 



A LITTLE STRANGER 



Out of the mist a stranger rare 
Came forth one day some home to share, 
And as she journeyed through the skies 
She caught the blue tints in her eyes; 
From dawns she brought the pinkish hue 
Upon her lips, when wont to coo ; 
And as she turned her dainty head 
This little stranger softly said: — 

II 

"I just peeped in from out the sky 

I do not know the reason why, 

And as I passed from star to star 

Some angel told me who j^ou are, 

Saying he thought that we are kin 

And thought perhaps you'd take me in. 

Nothing I have — no baggage bring. 

For I am such a helpless thing — 

No food, no clothes, no shoes to wear 

While you, I'm sure, have much to spare. 

But if you let me stay awhile 

I'll try to pay you with a smile 

I only ask some place to sleep 

In some spare crib, and when I peep 

From out its depths, into your eyes, 

I'll bring you taste of paradise." 



194 



MORNING 

All through my woe I called to Thee : 

Out of the depths I cried 
But never a word from yonder shoreless sea 

To my lone prayer replied. 

Yet when the night, like me was spent, 

With grief and old despair, 
The gray of dawn brought joy and sweet content: 

My answer waited there. 

WAR 



War thunders down the ages 
Like some wild storm that rages, 
Leaving on history's pages 

The red stains of despair: 
List ye, where men are dying 
And orphaned ones are crying, 
List ye, to woman's sighing 

And find the war-god there ! 

II 

Where one hero's head is lifted 
Through the hands of Death are sifted 
A thousand trembling hearts, less gifted, 

And stilled forever more: 
Where there shines one deed of glory, 
There ten thousand hands are gory, 
And few are left to tell the story 

And these are sorrow-sore. 



195 






EGYPT 

Thou patriarch of nations, wrinkled, gray, 
Crouching beside thy well beloved Nile, 
I marvel not the hand of Doom should lay 
So heavy as to hide thy ancient smile. 

If every grain of sand along thy shore 
Measured a cycle of a thousand years, 
Counting them all, thy age would still be more, 
Their measured grief would scarce be half thy tears. 

Thy watch-dog Sphynxes on the desert stand, 
Invisible the flocks of ghosts they keep ; 
Their grief as boundless as the endless sand 
That stretches far beyond the vision's sweep. 

Grim land of mummies, where the hot winds creep, 
Desert of lip-closed secrets of all years, 
Thy crimes have hardened clouds that cannot weep 
And crushed thee far beyond the flow of tears. 

If thy sad Nile no pity for thee kept 

And brought no blessings from the mountain side, 

Thy woes, alas, would then be doubly wept 

And Desolation all thy visage hide ! 

Ghost of the past: Mother of fallen Pride, 
Keeper of groans the keenest suffering knows, 
Stretch far thy sands and let the desert hide 
Thy crimes and grief, perchance to ease thy woes. 



196 



GEAY DAWN 

The city sleeps ! Like monster, many-eyed, 
Its heart throbs slow, within the gray of dawn, 
Too weary now for laughter or a yawn; 
This is the ebb-flow of its human tide. 

The last gay reveller now seeks repose 
Upon a couch, where old Regret will be 
Companion and as restless there as he; 
Paying the tribute sullen Fates impose. 

Crime hurries past: the day is not for him, 

Save to forget, in morbid slumber, all 

His ill-wrought deeds, which in his dreaming call 

Aloud for penance, through his chamber dim. 

She, of the crimson world, no longer seeks 

Her timid victims through the lanes of night: 

The gray of dawn awakens sudden fright 

Within her soul, where weeping Conscience speaks. 

The mass bells toll. A priest with cross and scroll 
Seeks yonder cloister, with its incense sweet, 
Where Guilt his weird confessions will repeat, 
And ask a pardon for his weary soul. 

Through mists of gloom a worker's hasty tread 
Breaks the dim silence, going forth to spin, 
That bread may bless his home and those within: 
And now the sleeper wakes : the East is red. 



197 



HYPOCKISY 

Thy silken cloak — Hypocrisy, I hate ! 

I hate thy placid look of saintly greed 

The greed that makes the poor more desolate 

Through holy pelf and twisted churchly creed! 

You seek our courts where victims stand in awe 
Of Man's strange inhumanity to man; 
Like Shylock, claiming fullness of the law, 
And on thy victims scar eternal ban. 

God pity him who worships at thy shrine 
Hypocrisy, then robs the widows purse ; 
God pity him, who in thy cloak would shine, 
Unmindful of deception's awful curse ! 

O Christ, what crimes are christened in thy name ! 
O Church, what guilty feet be-tread thy aisles! 
How Judas' kiss betrays, devoid of shame, 
And thy white soul of purity defiles ! 



THE EECOMPENSE OF FATE 

I saw a gardener plant an apple tree 
Beside his modest cottage, and for years 
Returning saw it grow, but ne'er a bloom 

Appeared to pay him for his cares. 
But in the after-days, when he was gone, 
And blossoms grew where he was laid 
away; 
The apple bloomed, and through the long 

Spring morn, 
Blessed cot and garden with its purple 
spray. 



198 



THE PIONEERS 

The great Middle-West, with its wonderful accomplishments, 
has left one task undone. It owes to the early pioneers a mon- 
ument that will surpass anything of its kind in this country. 
The subject is so rich in historic and artistic material that 
such a memorial can be made one of the world wonders. It is 
time for the West to awake to this task and the following lines 
are suggested as a stimulus to this undertaking. 



Loud went the call from the West through the leagues 

intervening, 
And far went its echoing soul to the East, that was 

leaning, 
With listening ear, to the sound. All the multitudes 

teeming 
The cities and lands of the Dutch, the Pilgrim and 

Swede 
Were eager to seek and to find by the trails that lead 
Across the line of the Blue Ridge hills 
A home secure from the taunting ills 
Of cavil and cant and the aimless claims of creed. 

II 

From the witchcraft land of stern New England's 

making 
Men turned their face to the West, whose hearts 

were aching 
For the broader life on the wild, untrammeled 

plains. 



199 



From the Hudson vale, far South, through the land 

was planted 
That liberty-love, which grew and urged and panted 
For that wider sphere, where the soul could grow 
Unbound by a false creed's chains. 

Ill 

So, up from the peopled East, up from the colder 
shores 

Gathered the yoeman hearts, with their scanty, hard- 
earned stores; 

Valorous, strong and free, the pride of God and man, 

These turned their faces Westward in many a caravan. 

And as they went, leaving behind the safety of 
easier living, 

Each knew, for a God-like cause, the best of his life 
was giving ; 

For the wild, wide sweep of the West, with its forests 
of unfelled trees 

Called for the strongest hearts and the valor of 
Hercules. 

IV 

White trails through the roadless woods, they moved 

with the moving sun, 
The frontier guard of pioneers, whose task was just 

begun ; 



200 



White trails o'er the mountain height and into the 

valleys dim 
They went with the step of melody in Freedom's 

unsung hymn. 

V 

In far Kentucky's valley, along the Ohio's stream, 
And yon beside the Wabash, where Nature's glories 

dream, 
The fertile land is sleeping, but dangers are awake 
While all the world is waiting to see a new dawn break : 
For out of this unclaimed region, upon this deeper 

soil 
Must grow a tribe of yeomen, whose bravery and 

whose toil 
Will yield a race of broader men, broader in all things 

best — 
As the land of the East is narrow and wider the 

virgin West ! 

Above the untouched forest curled many a cloud 

of smoke, 
In many a lonesome valley was heard the woodman's 

stroke, 
But ah! the tears, and ah! the fears and ah! the 

weary wait 
And ah! the aims that slowly died, hopeless and 

desolate ! 



201 



VI 

We praise our gilded cities, we love our fields of 

clover, 
We mark the glory of our West, with many a thrill 

of pride, 
But not until fair History's page is full and flowing 

over 
Shall we recount how many souls for this great end 

have died. 
Their lowly graves are scattered beside each lonely 

hill, 
Their manly hopes were shattered before they felt 

the thrill 
That comes with vict'ry's blessing; and we are left 

to tell 
The story of their valor and the task they did so well. 

VII 

Arouse, ye sons of yeomen, by hero sires begotten! 
Arouse, to honor mothers, whose glory, unforgotten, 
Spreads like a Summer flood of light o'er all the 

West to-day, 
Come ye with willing hearts and hands one debt of 
love to pay ! 

Like as their hopes were skyward bent, 

Like as their aim to God was lent, 

Like as their lives for ye were spent, 

Come now and build their monument. 



202 



TIME'S DATELESS YEARS 

A faded stone beside the sleepy Nile 
Marks where a palace stood in ages gone. 
There naught is left but desolation. Lone 
And still the spot, save every little while 
Is heard the groan of Egypt's crocodile 
Where Pharaoh's glory once, unrivaled, shone. 

A wind-swept Palm, living beyond its day, 
Picture of grief, beside the river stands. 
It watches there the constant moving sands 
That through the torrid wastes forever play — 
Mocking the gilded domes of yesterday, 
Turning a kingly wealth to desert lands. 
Time's dateless years know not of human aim. 
Men build and reach for glory and for fame — 
While stern oblivion wipes, with careless hands, 
From polished stone the victor's gilded name. 



A DAY ON THE FAEM ONCE MORE 

Oh! give me a day on the dear old farm once more, 

One such as when a barefoot boy I strayed 
Among the weeds and tangled clover tops 

And listened to the ceaseless tunes there played 
From every tree-top where the feathered throats 
Sang ceaselessly, because the days were sweet. 
And let it be a day in harvest time, 

When every wind that swept across the field 
Was perfume-laden and when twilight came, 

Then all the glories of the Summer night revealed : 
When every prayer was like a lover's song, 
Because to live was love and love is prayer. 



203 



A SONG OF SCARLET 



Reared in a world where poverty grew 
Rank as the weeds in a summer field 
She drank of the cup which criminals brew — 
She felt the blows which the vicious wield, — 
And yet, in spite of her world of sin, 
She was passing fair in the eyes of men. 

II 

She took no note of the hasty years, 
She scarcely knew when her womanhood 
Outgrew the maid — save for the tears 
That came when she turned to sin from good; 

For the brute, called man, who had watched her 
grow 

Despoiled her life, so the world could know. 

And the world — with its envious eyes of hate — 
The world — with its holier self content — 
Closed to her erring feet the gate 
Of help — and wrought its punishment 

Of scorn and scowl upon her head ! 

Far better the erring soul were dead ! 

Scarce two score years of toiling youth 

Had flushed her locks of curly brown, 

When in her soul the awful truth 

Dawned full of the world's cold frown; 
An outcast hence, in the dark was she 
While quietly man, the man, went free ! 

Thus hedged around with fear and doubt 
But one road called — the road of sin; 
There pass within her gate — and out — 
The false and guilty steps of men: 

And as her charms wax full and strong 

The woman sings this scarlet song: 

204 



Ill 

"My art is old as the oldest age, 

None know when it first began; 

My lamps have burned in the hermitage 
Of sin, since the birth of man. 

I paint my face in the dusky light : 

Then sit me down and wait, 
For I know the brutes, called men, to-night 

Will find the road to my gate. 

I am older than sin — as old as crime — 
These two came at my birth; 

The world first heard my name in rhyme 
And linked my smile with mirth. 

The strongest men are weakest; and 

I know my art so well 
That I set my lamp in the window stand: 

They know what I have to sell. 

I can pitch my tent in the vilest street 

Where feet are a-loth to go 
Yet there will the wheels of travel meet 

And the coin of many flow. 

For each who comes I have a smile 

Different, and clinging arms: 
For each who goes, in a little while 

I fill with Dread's alarms ! 



205 



Over the road on which I've gone 
Lie wrecks of a thousand lives, 

I've dimmed the light, which brightly shone 
From a thousand destinies. 

They say my years are twenty and two 
Though I've lived beyond fourscore; 

In the art of life I've learned to brew 
The cup which calls for more. 

But ere a few more years decline 

And my charms will cease to please 

Lo ! then I shall drink of the Lotus wine 
And go where the grave shall ease; 

For I'm not afraid of the fatal cup, 

I have no fear of sin — 
When my art has failed I shall gladly sup 

With Death instead of men." 



206 



AT THE GATE OF DREAMS 

Like idle children at the Gate of Dreams, 
Piping the tunes we caught along the road 

Of half-forgotten days, 
We sit with folded hands and watch the gleams 

Of light that fall on yet untrodden ways. 

Each day we build new castles in the air 
On ruins left from those of yesterday 

That fell ere half complete; 
Each day comes promise of a land more fair 

And echoes of new songs more weird, more 
sweet. 

Once more we live youth's lusty morn anew 
Once more the sweet June roses scent the air 

Along the dusty way; 
We count the past as real, the future true 

And speed the present for a happier day. 

For Hope that springs eternal in the soul 
Fills all the rugged way of human toil 

With silver-tinted gleams; 
Gives every day new promise to unfold, 

And makes us children at the Gate of Dreams. 



207 



O PIONEEKS! 

Like idle dreamers in the sun 

We sit and tell the deeds we've done. 

Of peaceful victories we have won 

Through the tread of silent years — 
Yet never think of the brave who fought 
On the outskirt-land, where the Indian sought 
The lives of those who grimly wrought 
For us, O Pioneers! 

We sit in the halls of state and tell 

Of laws we've made so strong and well — 

But we nothing know of the awful hell 

That followed the early years, 
When you went out, through the valleys dim, 
Singing a nation's birth-morn hymn, 
Trusting your fate and your strength in Him 
Who rules, O Pioneers! 

You sleep in many an unmarked grave, 
As sleep the loyal and the brave: 
No marble lifts, your fame to save, 

O Pioneers ! O Pioneers ! 
Yet time shall hold your deeds of steel 
Safe from oblivion's claim — and wield 
For you a nation's deathless seal 

Through a nation's grief and tears ! 

THE ABSENT FACES 

In the crowded ways and along the market places, 
Where Mammon walks, all hand-in-hand with Pride, 
Upturned, I note, the plaintive, childish faces, 
That touch and pass me on the Tumult's tide ; 
And there, along these life-invested places 
I see my own — my absent children's faces. 

208 



THEN AND NOW 

A country boy, barefooted, poor, alone, 
Looked far across the Summer's golden day 
Towards the city's pompous, busy way 
Where wealth and splendor shone. 
But he was poor, and every fierce desire 
Was hushed. — And yet yon curling smoke 
Within his soul Ambition's dream awoke 
To set his heart afire. 

The glad years sped; Ambition had her way: 
The busy street gave him her wealth; and Fame 
Showed him the heights, and there his shining name, 
Written in gold, to live beyond his day. 
But with it all the vale of childhood's joy, 
The fragrant hills, the waving fields of June, 
Were ever with him, whistling some old tune : 
Somehow he longed once more to be a boy. 



IN SOME SAD HOUR 

In some sad hour I'll hold your Trembling hand 
And plead the passing moments for delay, 

When one of us must pass beyond the real 
And one must stay. 

It matters not to us which it shall be ; 

Who first shall tread alone the hidden ways; 
But God be gentle in that lonely hour 

To one who stays. 



209 



WHEN GOOD ST. PAUL WENT HOME 

"Open the gates on the golden bar ! 
Open the welcome portals wide 

To yonder traveler from afar 

Sin-scarred from the further side." 

Thus Gabriel's call from the outer wall 
As he saw the weary steps of one 
Approach; behold! the good St. Paul 
Safe home with his work well done ! 

And out by the golden terrace there 
And down by the fields of Asphodel 
The sound of harp was everywhere 
And trembling voices sought to tell 

The coming of one, who long delayed, 
Because of toil, yet who had sent 
A host of souls to be arrayed 
In heaven's immortal garnishment. 

And when the pilgrim had entered in 
And heard the song of the heavenly choir 
Somehow, he wished for the world of sin, 
For his soul was all on fire 

To return once more to the place of men 

New souls for God to win. 



210 



THE WINDOW OF SOULS 



THE WINDOW OF SOULS 

Three stories from every day Life, illustrating the 
Power of Heredity and its influence on character. 

I Beyond the Reach of Pride 
II Magdalene 
HI After Many Years 

HEREDITY 

Through open windows of her soul 
I looked — and there, alas! to see 
The taint of olden sins unfold — 
The gift of blood to such as she. 

A woman's heart was hers within 
A woman's love, with pity bent 
And yet the lure of father's sin 
Was there to follow where she went. 

If she should wear the scarlet gown 
And walk the road where Folly dwells 
Be mindful this: forget to frown 
On one where blood forever tells. 



THE WINDOW OF SOULS 

Real character can only be understood when seen 
through the window of one's soul. People walk 
through life from youth to old age, covered by a 
thin veneer of pretence and pass to honored graves. 

The world is flooded with books, dealing in cheap 
society characters, silly conversation and people who 
know little and feel less. To paint life as it is char- 
acters must feel deeply and act from impulse — those 
who have gone into the depths and suffered. And to 
see them as they are we must view them through the 
windows of their souls. 

This is the age of intolerance. Society shuns the 
unfortunate, our courts send them to wear prison 
stripes; neither considers the fact that we inherit all 
the weaknesses of our parents. 

Modern society has forgotten the fact that the 
Master pardoned the scarlet woman, cried out against 
hypocrisy and told the thief on the cross: "This day 
thou shalt be with me in paradise." 

In the following stories we look through the window 
of souls at each individual and see the powerful in- 
fluence which Heredity exerts in the formation of char- 
acter. Old as the subject is it is the most interesting 
question under discussion today. Characters are made 
or lost through the price of blood, no matter what 
part education and environment may have played 
in the life of the individual. 

If civilization does anything for human uplift it 
should teach us the spirit of mercy toward the un- 
fortunate. Yet, in spite of this, Shylock clamors 
more violently today for his pound of flesh than ever 
before in the world's history. 

That those who read these stories will finish them 
with more charity in their souls is the sincere wish 
of the author. 



215 



BEYOND THE REACH OF PRIDE 



Pride often acts as a mighty barrier to human 
happiness. It is an age-old instinct that leads un- 
wary feet into tangled pathways. Its glittering prom- 
ises blind the eyes so that wrong decisions are made 
and false steps are taken. "Pride goeth before de- 
struction and a haughty spirit before a fall" is as 
true today as it was in the time of holy writ. 

It is the story of a woman's life for whose undoing 
the spirit of Pride was responsible. It is the story of 
superhuman effort, limitless ambition and dismal fail- 
ure. Not until the last barrier of pride was beaten 
down and she was left helpless would she accept the 
wonderful gift of Love, which made her pathway 
smooth. 

II 

The spring time had crept lightly up from the sunny 
South and painted the glory of her coming over 
the hills and valleys of northern New York. The 
rocky hedge rows were aglow with rhododendron and 
honeysuckle, in the valleys were acres of white and 
yellow daisies, while vines hung heavy with varied 
blossoms along every road and bridle path. The 
still June air was heavy with perfume and over the 
far-reaching landscape was that visible sense of beauty 
which only the hand of nature can paint. 

Barton Strong, a money king of New York, was 
on his annual spring visit to his famous stock farm, 
near Norris Station. He was giving some final in- 
structions to his manager, when he was approached 
by Aaron Greer, a nearby tenant. For years Greer 

216 



had held a grudge against Strong about a boundary- 
fence. He approached the stock farm owner and 
his manager in an ugly mood and said: 

"Mr. Strong, I have warned you before that your 
pasture fence must be moved, and I now give you notice 
that this must be done or you shall suffer the conse- 
quences." 

"I have told you before, Mr. Greer," replied Strong 
"that the fence is on my own land and will not be 
moved. That is final and I do not want any more 
controversy about the matter. You understand that 
is final." 

Greer's face showed all the pent-up anger of years 
— anger as the outgrowth of an imaginary wrong. He 
had schooled himself to hate Strong and on this 
morning that anger seemed to reach its climax. 
Where ignorance nurses an imaginary wrong for years 
it becomes an obsession and Greer's desire for ven- 
geance prompted him to act then and there, but his 
courage failed him. Looking at Strong with his keen 
black eyes he said: 

"All right. I take your word as final. Then look 
out and abide the consequences." 

At these words he swung away down the road and 
soon disappeared in the distance. 

"He's a bad customer," remarked the manager but 
Barton Strong dismissed the subject and proceeded 
with his final instructions about the farm and its 
management. 

An hour later the New Yorker was on his way 
back to the city, enjoying the beauty of the landscape 
as his chauffeur drove leisurely along the winding 
roadway, unmindful of the warning of his disagree- 
able neighbor. 

But Aaron Greer was not unmindful of the morn- 
ing's happening. He had concealed himself in a 

217 



thicket of Alder trees near Norris Station and 
awaited the coming of his victim. Anger burned in 
his heart, so that he lost all control of himself. Ven- 
geance was sweet as he saw the car approach — at last 
he would even differences with his hated neighbor. 

Quickly two shots rang out. Strong dropped back 
with a dangerous wound in his left side and the 
driver's right arm fell limp from a bullet which 
pierced the elbow. Greer slipped away through the 
underbrush as the car came to a sudden stop. 

The only witness to the tragedy was Jean Gray, 
eighteen, an orphan living with her uncle in the vil- 
lage. She rushed to the car. In a flash she saw the 
danger to the two men — then telling them she would 
summon a doctor the girl ran to the nearest telephone 
— one mile away. In half an hour medical help was 
there, but none too soon, for Strong was bleeding pro- 
fusely and had lost consciousness. 

The two men were quickly taken to the Gray home 
and given every attention which that humble abode 
could afford. The chauffeur was able to telephone 
Dr. Stoddard in New York — Barton Strong's phy- 
sician and under his skillful care the man's life was 
saved. 

In the meantime Jean Gray acted as nurse to the 
wounded man. She was a type of woman, somewhat 
to herself. Miss Gray came of an old, well known 
family, very proud and at one time wealthy. Her 
father had lost all in wild speculation and too proud 
to face his old friends in the city had moved to the 
country and died a disappointed man; leaving Jean, 
his only child, nothing, who was cared for by a pov- 
erty-stricken uncle and in a home exceedingly un- 
congenial. 

In spite of her misfortunes Jean Gray lived in a 
world of dreams and was, in a way, happy. Like 
her father she was ambitious and every fibre of her 
nature thrilled with pride. Of course, her immediate 

218 



surroundings made her extremely dissatisfied at times, 
but her spirit arose above this and she lived in the 
future, to which she constantly looked with a calm 
assurance of success. Far away in that future she 
could see an admiring world at her feet as she be- 
came a star on the dramatic stage. She had nursed 
this feeling, lived it from day to day and never once 
doubted that success awaited her. It had never fully 
occured to her just how she was to make her dreams 
come true, for her opportunities were so limited that 
not even an opening could she see. And yet these 
mighty obstacles never dampened her ambition. She 
read the best plays and acted parts in the seclusion 
of her bare room. Out in the lonely woods, when as- 
sured that no one was in sight, she learned to dance 
exceedingly well. Hers was a dream world, filled 
with all kinds of possibilities and she never for once 
lost faith in what the final outcome would be. 

Ill 

For three days after the shooting Barton Strong 
lay in a state of unconsciousness. He had lost so 
much blood that he was extremely weak. Fortunately 
the bullet which pierced his side and ranged ex- 
ceedingly near the heart had passed on through and 
embedded itself in the back wood-work of the car. 
He was too weak to be moved and Jean had taken 
her regular turn as a nurse, along with the profes- 
sional Dr. Stoddard had brought up from New York. 

Coming out of unconsciousness often brings us in- 
to a new world, peopled with new beings, in whom 
we find a new interest. The awaking has something 
of the weird and mysterious about it, the realization 
of new surroundings, new faces, new impressions, 
something akin, I imagine, to that new life we shall 
enter, after this old existence is over. The feeling 
is not unlike the talking to people in our dreams. 

219 



Thus, on the third day, when Strong was aroused 
from his unconscious stupor, he looked about the bare 
little room in a sense of bewilderment. Sitting at his 
bedside was a woman, whose face, his quickened, 
senses recognized, was the last one he saw before the 
tragedy. He looked at her tenderly and asked : 

"Who are you?" 

"I am Jean Gray, your nurse for the afternoon. 
But come, you must be quiet ; you have been very ill." 

He put out his hand and touched hers : "I remem- 
ber now. Yours was the last face I saw before I felt 
this pain in my side. But where am I now?" 

"You are in my home," she answered. "You were 
too ill to be taken to a hospital, so you must be quiet 
and remain here until you are strong again." 

Whether it was love at first sight which smote him 
just before the bullet pierced near his heart, or the 
sight of the girlish face when the first moment of 
consciousness approached, matters not. It may have 
been the sight of her dark, dreamy eyes which left 
its imprint on his mind during the hours of stupor, 
or the beauty of her face as he looked at her there in 
the half darkened room ; yet in that supreme moment, 
when he realized that the old sweet life had come 
back to him, Barton Strong felt and understood 
fully that a new personality had entered his world 
of romance. 

IV 

The weary weeks of recovery passed. The wound 
was a stubborn one and affected the heart to such 
extent that removal to the city could not be con- 
sidered. The patient must remain until all danger 
was passed. And somehow the patient did not rebel 
against this decision. 

Dr. Stoddard had told Strong that the heroic 
effort of Miss Gray to get aid quickly had saved his 

220 



life. Another five minutes of delay and he would have 
bled to death. 

"You owe her a great debt, Strong, in fact, you 
owe your life to her," said Stoddard. 

"She can have it if she wants it," Strong replied 
with a smile. At this the Doctor laughed for he 
had already seen enough to understand. 

June had blossomed forth in all her glory. It 
was apple-blossom time at Norris Station and fortu- 
nate for this dear old world apple-blossom time is 
the same everywhere. The leaves have the same 
softness, the flowers are just as beautiful and the per- 
fume is just as sweet. The buccaneering bees are 
just as busy in one place as another, the sun shines 
with the same softness and the love song of every 
bird is just as full of domestic joy. June is the same 
sweet June, whether it be in the palace garden, or in 
the oak-embowered yard of the Jean Gray home. 

And Romance, too, plays his part with the same 
passionate fervor, whether it be among the rustle of 
silks, or where the hand of poverty has left its im- 
print. 

Propped in an easy chair, under a spreading apple 
tree, on the lawn the convalescent Strong listened 
to Jean's reading of an old Grecian romance' — a 
Greek play in which she was specially interested. 
But as the invalid listened he lost the thread of the 
story in the glory of the reader's eyes and voice. 

The man had never loved before. Aside from 
a school-boy romance, women had never interested 
him, although he was near thirty. Therefore this 
new blaze which flamed up in his heart was all con- 
suming in its intensity. It was like a tropical storm 
which breaks upon some lonely island with all con- 
suming intensity. It swept away his ideals of the 
past. He, Barton Strong, a king among money- 
makers, a ruler of men and millions, strong-willed, 

221 



a leader where others followed, could not understand 
— could not comprehend what this new impulse in 
his soul meant. He was dazed at its mighty sweep 
over his destiny. He had come to look upon this 
thing which nearly cost him his life as the greatest 
blessing that had yet crossed his pathway. He even 
thought of the would-be assassin as his greatest bene- 
factor. The tender voice and gentle ways of this 
almost common-place little woman had become the 
Cleopatra in his destiny. It was strange — all very 
strange — and yet he was very happy. 

V 

And thus as he sat there and listened to the story 
of some old romance from the musty annals of Greece 
he touched the arm of the reader and said: 

"Let's forget the old romances of the Greeks, Miss 
Gray, and weave one of our own, one to our liking, 
as Omar would say." 

"What do you mean, Mr. Strong?" she said in a 
woman-like way. For days Jean Gray had read the 
heart of her patient and knew perfectly well what 
he meant. Women are adepts in affairs of the heart. 
They read the first signs and quickly understand. 
Men are dull in this respect and act upon impulse. 

He put out his hand to her. Skilled as he was in 
other things this man of the world was a child in the 
art of love-making. 

"You must know what I mean — you must have 
read my heart. You are woman enough to under- 
stand. I love you." 

"I am sorry you said that, Mr. Strong," she re- 
plied, half closing the book on her lap. "I have an 
ambition to accomplish something, to be somebody. 
I'm fully decided to try the stage." 

"It's a long road and a hard one," he said. "Let me 
persuade you to give it up." 

222 



"Then I would give up the one bright dream of my 
life. That dream has always been with me — a part 
of myself. It has been my life — my all — for you can 
see I have nothing here." 

Barton Strong already knew how strong-willed and 
determined she was. Perhaps that, and the seeming 
hopelessness of his plea made her words cut all the 
deeper in his soul. 

"Don't you care for me?" he asked. 

"Yes." And after a pause; "perhaps more than I 
could care for any other man, but remember I must 
be true to myself — I must, at least, try for a career." 

"Then admit it's Pride that stands between us,'* 
the invalid said. 

"Call it that if you wish, Mr. Strong, but I cannot 
give up the dream of my life, without at least making 
an effort. Someone must redeem our family failures." 

"Then suppose I wait." 

"We'll let it go at that, if you wish. But you will 
not wish me to fail, will you?" 

"If I wish for myself, yes; if I wish for you, no." 

"That is an evasive answer, Mr. Strong," she said 
with a somewhat cynical smile. 

VI 

The day of release finally came. Barton Strong 
had remained at the Gray home longer than was nec- 
essary. The old, oak shaded lawn had more charms 
for him than all the gaudy flare of Fifth Avenue. 
After all it is not the place, but the inhabitants there- 
of, which make a spot dear to our hearts. The ingle- 
nook is not the same unless the glow of the firelight 
shines upon a beloved face. 

The patient had served the full term of a blessed 
imprisonment and the 12:30 train was to carry him 
back to the noisy bustle and heartlessness of Broad- 
way and Wall Street. He had watched the last 

223 



twilight paint the mountain side in the west with 
tints of gold. The hermit Thrush had sung for him 
her last dawn's awakening melody. Lilac, rose and 
apple-blossom were to be left behind and with them 
the very soul of Barton Strong would stay. The 
fast express could carry his body back to New York, 
but the great, burning love of the man would remain 
at Norris Station. 

As they were standing apart at the station, as all 
such lovers will on such an occasion, he turned to 
Jean and said: 

"Better change your plans and make me happy, 
Jean. I'll come for you any time you say." 

"I thought we settled that yesterday, Mr. Strong. 
Perhaps, some day, but for the present you must 
wait. Wait until my dream comes true." 

Express trains are cruel-hearted beings. They 
snatch away so quickly the things we treasure so 
dearly and ere we realize what has happened the thing 
we love so well is gone — gone and we know not how 
far away — nor yet for how long. 

As Jean Gray watched the 12:30 whisk away from 
Norris Station amid a cloud of smoke, she felt that 
something had been taken out of her life. The old 
pride and the old ambitions were still there, yet some- 
thing was missing. 

Again the old, old story of human unrest — pride 
undoing the things which Love would do and leav- 
ing a woman's soul stranded in despair. 

She had given up the sweetest thing that could have 
come into her existence and in its place had chosen the 
uneven road to which the finger of Pride had pointed. 



224 



FROM BLUE HILLS TO BROADWAY 



Summer came to a dull ending at Norris Station. 
Late August touched the chestnut trees with her 
gaudiest colors and made of the vast oak forests 
one mighty flame of red. Cedar and pine and hem- 
lock alone stood unchanged by the passing seasons. 
Across the sedgy hillsides were straggling rows of 
sumac like a loosely drawn ribbon of fire. Golden- 
rod nodded in the first breezes which blew in from the 
north. 

While convalescing under the care of Jean Gray, 
Strong had given her a letter to a theatrical man- 
ager in New York, although he hoped that she would 
soon be disgusted with the stage, give it up and marry 
him. Just before she left for the big city a letter 
came from Strong saying he was called to London 
on important business, but hoped to see her in New 
York on his return. 

This letter was both a disappointment and a joy 
to Jean Gray. Two elements were at work in her 
soul — the womanly, natural instinct to smother her 
ambitions, abandon a career and marry the man 
whom she really loved, but which fact she was afraid 
to admit, even to herself. The other was that his 
absence from the city would make her more depen- 
dent upon her own efforts and thus hasten the success 
she so much craved. 

An offer of marriage came to Jean Gray, but 
Pride, Ambition, desire for a career, stood up and 
said, "No." It was not the woman speaking — her 
natural impulse was to marry — but that artificial age 
in which she lived said "wait." 

225 



The woman "waits." She struggles against all 
kinds of odds in the cruel street called "Trade," she 
grows old; the man who would have made her happy 
seeks and finds a wife elsewhere and his first love is 
left alone, amid failure, gray hair and hastening 
years — to bemoan the day when she rebelled against 
the call of "motherhood." 

Nature has her fixed laws which all the civilization 
of the ages cannot alter. Woman's natural instinct 
is a clinging love for man, a looking up to him as her 
protector, a love for children and a place called 
"Home." No civilization that ever will be devised 
can rob her of these attributes. 

II 

It is a long call from a country wayside station to 
Broadway. One leaves behind serenity and peace — 
maybe content — and emerges into a whirlpool of 
strange activities. Once on that busy thoroughfare, 
amid millions of strange and indifferent faces, Jean 
Gray's courage seemed to desert her. Here was the 
life of which she had no conception. Before her 
eyes Pride was on parade. Ambition, too, brushed 
haughtily by. In a thousand faces she saw the finger 
prints of failure. Wistful looks told her of bleeding 
hearts within, stabbed by the dagger of disappoint- 
ment. In the lower strata were the derelicts of every 
craft that had tried the uncertain seas of life. Over 
and above all wealth cast its deadening and dis- 
couraging shadow. 

What a speck she seemed in this procession of the 
world's great circus. For the first time she realized 
how hopeless seemed the climb before her. 

With her small means Jean found a little bed-room 
in a crowded boarding house at twice the cost she had 
expected to pay. That night was her garden in 
Gethesemane. Unacquainted, she went early to her 

226 



room but not to sleep. Somehow the old home, even 
with its uncongenial atmosphere, seemed like a palace 
in the far away distance. Homesick and weeping she 
once thought of returning the next day, but Pride 
stood before her and whispered "No." 

The next day she called on the producer, to whom 
she had a letter. A cold, keen eyed man met her. 
But for the letter she never would have gotten in. 
"Yes, Mr. Strong was his friend, Mr. Strong had 
gone abroad, but what could she do?" 

She told him of her studies, her ambition and 
pleaded to be given a try-out. 

There was a long list ahead, the manager told her, 
but on Mr. Strong's account she would have a trial. 

By the end of the week Jean Gray had landed in 
the chorus and after all the clouds did not seem to 
hang so low. 

Ill 

In the average small town gossip travels on the 
fleetest wings. Further, it thrives more in the village 
than in the city. Idleness is gossip's mother and right 
well she brings up her children. People who are 
busy have no time to investigate the affairs of others. 

In every village there is a gossip-monger, a char- 
acter that stands alone in the community. He 
is despised on account of his or her occupation, yet 
much sought after by those who become hungry for 
something to tell. This character is unique. He can 
ruin more reputations and besmirch more characters 
than all the red light districts of the world. He is 
usually an idler, without any visible means of sup- 
port, but somehow he goes on from year to year, 
without a worry or an ambition. Consult him in 
the back lot or in some lonely corner around the post 
office and he can put you wise about the private affairs 
of almost every man or woman in town. He is 

227 



a generous individual, charging no fee for imparting 
his fund of private information. The fact is he is 
a born gossip, and like the poet or sculptor he loves 
his work. He deals in social scandal, not only im- 
parting what he has heard or knows, but even manu- 
factures much to add to his stock in trade. 

Sam Phillips had held this position at Norris 
Station for over 30 years and no one dared to dispute 
his right to the place. His whiskers were allowed to 
grow in wild profusion, now much stained by exuding 
tobacco juice. How long he had worn his present 
suit of clothes no one could recall. In the past ten 
years he had worn out not less than ten good pocket 
knives and had whittled up more than a car load of 
perfectly good timber — mostly from white pine pack- 
ing boxes which he recruited from the back lot of the 
town drug store. 

The most important event in Sam's daily routine 
was to meet the 12:30 train. Here he recruited his 
stock of gossip, which often ran very low. He thus 
knew who came and who went and usually found 
out the intent of their errands. 

Other people's business was Sam's business. He 
would also meet the night train, but unfortunately 
for him that one passed about mid-night, an arrange- 
ment about which he complained bitterly. He once 
wrote the railroad company to change its schedule, 
but it seems his letter was not approved as he never 
had a reply to his request. 

John Alston was the town recorder, a man of some 
education and character and he made it a part of 
his business to suppress, as far as he could, gossip 
and lawlessness in the little town in which he took 
considerable interest and in which he was, perhaps, 
the most conspicuous figure. 



228 



IV 

It was late in September, an ideal day and a con- 
siderable number of village dwellers were at the depot 
to see the arrival of the noon train. Phillips was at 
his post, as usual, sitting on a truck at the baggage 
end of the station, busily whittling away at a new 
piece of white pine board. Alston had approached 
him and remarked : — 

"You missed the 12:30 yesterday, Sam, what was 
the matter? Important business, I suppose?" 

"Yes, in a way," the gossip replied. "I was in an 
argument up town with Jack Sloan about prohibition 
and when I got in sight of the station she was pulling 
out." 

"Great pity," remarked, Alston, "also very strange, 
for a gentleman of leisure like you is as regular as 
an eight day clock." 

Phillips was hardened to sarcasm and the "gentle- 
man of leisure" remark made no impression on him 
whatever. 

There was a long pause during which Phillips 
squirted a good deal of tobacco on the pavement, 
getting ready for something important, as Alston 
knew. 

Finally redoubling his whittling operations, which 
was always a sign of a new break along some line, he 
said: 

"John, I hear'n that Jean Gray has gone down to 
New York to become a coarse woman." 

Alston:— "What's that you say?" 

Phillips: — "I said I hear'n that Jean Gray has 
gone to New York to become a coarse woman — them 
kind that picks men on the street." 

Alston grasped the speaker by the collar and shook 
him unmercifully. Then in a fit of rage he said: — 

"You look here, Sam Phillips. You have less sense 
229 



than any man I ever knew. Have you told that to 
any one else?" 

Phillips: — "No, just heard it." 

Alston: — "Then for God's sake keep your mouth 
shut, or I'll have you locked up. Miss Gray has gone 
to New York to act in the theatre as a chorus girl. 
She is to dance on the stage — not the kind of women 
you are thinking about." 

Phillips : — "Oh ! you mean them kind that dance 
in the front row on the stage and kick at men and 
wink at 'em." 

Alston: — "I mean that Miss Gray is in the chorus 
and dances on the stage." 

Phillips: — "Well, I seed 'em once in Buffalo and 
the way they looked and kicked at me I don't see 
much difference from what I first said. If they 
don't get you one way they can get you the other." 

Alston: — "That's enough. No more if you please. 
And now listen, if I hear that you have repeated this 
thing anywhere in Norris Station, the lock-up will 
have a new tenant mighty soon, and the position of 
town gossip will be vacant." 

The roar of the 12 :30 thundering on its way to the 
great city, ended the colloquy. After it had gone 
the listless crowd dispersed in various directions, 
restless as to how they should fill in the time of the 
long September afternoon. 



230 



WHEN THE LIGHT WENT OUT 



Late in November Jean Gray had been disillusioned. 
The bubble had burst, the castle in Spain had fallen — 
the coveted crown of fame had failed to come her way. 

Yet that is but the penalty of youth and ambition. 
When the blood runs red in the veins, before age has 
weakened its strength, all things seem possible. Ex- 
perience alone can correct our immature aims and 
teach us the great lesson of life and of living. 

As a room-mate Jean had a girl from the west, 
one ten years her senior — who was leader of the chorus 
and who had gone through all the disappointments 
of theatrical life. This girl was Winnie Yates and 
while the two were far apart in temperament and 
outlook upon life, there was something in common be- 
tween them, which had made them close friends. 

In going through her trunk that evening she found, 
by chance, a verse of poetry which Barton Strong 
had given her on the day they parted. The girl was 
terribly depressed, seeing no chance for an immediate 
advance, and for the first time she told Miss Yates 
the story of her romance, of how Strong wanted to 
marry her and of her refusal. 

"You are very foolish Jean," her friend remarked, 
"and if I were in your place I would call him now and 
give him the reply he no doubt wants." 

"No, I cannot do that," she said. "Furthermore, 
he is most likely still abroad. But even if he is here, 
I could not do that — it would be a confession of fail- 
ure. Only those who have stood face to face with 
failure can understand what a terrible ordeal it is. 
It is a moment of supreme test — a test which tries 
the bitterness of the soul, face to face with undoing." 

231 



"My dear girl," said Miss Yates, "I've stood face to 
face with failure many, many times since going into 
this business. But why did he give you that poem?" 

"I do not know unless he knew I would fail — would 
become discouraged and would remember him when 
that time came." 

"That was his game," said Miss Yates, who knew all 
the ins and outs of stage life, "and you are very foolish 
if you let this wonderful opportunity pass. The man 
is only waiting until you have your tryout and fail, 
as so many of us do. Take my advice and take Mr. 
Strong at his word." 

II 

But Jean Gray was not the kind of woman to fall so 
quickly. She was made of different material and would 
not surrender. It was at this point when that old 
inherited pride rose up in her soul and commanded her 
to go on. It was then she remembered her father whom 
she had loved with all the tenderness of a great heart. 
He had refused, on account of pride, to remain in the 
city where he had failed and had spent his last years 
in the loneliness of the country. No, she could not now 
turn back. She could not face the people in the little 
gossipy village and outwardly confess to them her 
failure. That would be humiliation more than she 
could bear. 

During the period of stress, when the meagre pay 
was scarcely enough to meet her actual needs a re- 
puted rich wall street broker had met her through 
some of her chorus companions, a Mr. Harry Oldys. 
This man haunted the stage door entrance and 
showered her with flowers and rather intruded his 
attentions upon her. He was good looking, ^well 
dressed, fairly well educated and outwardly seemed a 
gentleman. 

For weeks she refused all of his attentions. Always 

232 



she had an excuse, but the man was not easily dis- 
couraged. He persisted. 

Say not, ye skeptical, that woman is frail, but when 
hunger weakens her vitals and lays its finger prints 
upon her face make allowance for all her frailties. 

She had reached the point where physical necessity 
played its part and finally she accepted his oft re- 
peated invitation to dinner. 

Once the die was cast the road seemed smooth. 
It is always so. In taking this step she had committed 
no sin and yet she felt inwardly that the old sense of 
innocence had gone away from her. She was not 
Jean Gray any more. She was some one else — just 
like the others with whom she danced in the chorus. 
Not that she felt better than they, but she had nursed 
an old formula of straightforward living which caused 
her a sense of pain when she surrendered. 

After this first step there were many dinners. 
Life took on a brighter aspect — a new glamour. In- 
stead of spending time in her lonely room there was 
music, gayety, life and a rosy atmosphere. Strange 
how quickly we forget — what little things change our 
whole outlook upon life. 

Presently Gossip said: "Jean Gray has caught the 
rich wall streeter." She became the envy of those who 
touched elbows with her in the dance. She was the 
fortunate one. 

Oldys pleaded with her to marry him, but to her 
this seemed unthinkable. He was fifteen years her 
senior — had everything that could make life easy for 
her and yet this whisp of a girl, just eighteen, full of 
ambition and pride was not to be so easily turned from 
the work she had chosen. There was character back 
of all her actions and high aims which could see beyond 
the flimsy glamour of Broadway life. Even the vast 
wealth which Oldys was reputed to have could not 
turn her head, so long as she had a chance. And her 

233 



forty dollars per week gave her only enough to pay 
her weekly board bill and her rent and leave but a few 
dollars for clothes and other necessities. 

Ill 

In January the show went broke. Necessities had 
compelled her to spend every cent and she was left 
stranded, like so many others. 

After all she had passed through Jean Gray felt 
that the crisis had finally come. Somehow she had 
had a premonition that something like this would 
happen. And yet she never dreamed it would come 
so suddenly and leave her so completely bankrupt. 

Again her thoughts turned to Strong. Must she 
telephone him? She knew how gladly he would help 
her — how he would even take her out of this life which 
had become such a failure and with which she was 
now perfectly disgusted. She even looked in the tele- 
phone book and saw his office number. 

But no. She could suffer physical pain, she could 
want for food and clothes, but Jean Gray could not 
confess to Barton Strong that she was down and out. 
Better go back to the humiliation of Norris Station, 
with all the disgrace that meant. But call Mr. Strong 
and confess that she had failed? Never! 

It was at this moment that the woman in her rose 
up again. Why had she not listened to him at first — 
listened to the womanly instinct — the call of the ingle- 
nook — the evening firelight — the prattle of children's 
voices and all the glory which comes with domestic 
felicity? These things she had spurned, cast aside, 
rejected and in their place taken — what? The deadly 
comparison smote her unmercifully. Self condem- 
nation always strikes with a merciless hand. In her 
case it seemed more than she could bear. 

But now there was no time for indecision. She must 
act and act quickly. The great city is merciless. It is 

£'34 



cruel. It has no sympathy. So long as money lasts, 
so long as bills are paid it pats you on the shoulder, it 
smiles and compliments. But when Want becomes 
your comrade, when Poverty walks arm in arm with 
you, then the face of the great city changes from a 
smile to a frown. 

IV 

After the crash came in the financial affairs of the 
simple little life of Jean Gray she became unusually 
serious. She realized that something must be done and 
done quickly. The condition of her pocket book de- 
manded immediate action. There could be no delay. 

Winnie Yates, who on account of her long connec- 
tion with the stage, soon found another place and in 
the meantime helped her friend with a small loan. 

"Call up your Strong man," she said. "Tell him to 
come on, bring a parson and put you on your feet in 
a Riverside apartment," 

"Nothing like that for me," replied Jean. "Further- 
more, Mr. Strong is still abroad and I cannot spare the 
price of a cable." 

"I'll loan you the cost of a cable message," said Miss 
Yates "and charge Mr. Strong a big premium for help- 
ing him get the wife he wants. It will come pretty 
high, but he will gladly pay." 

"That's kind," said the chorus singer. "But I just 
cannot do it. It is just beyond my sense of what is 
right." 

Harry Oldys, of course, pressed his suit with new 
vigor. "Don't think I take advantage of the situation," 
he said. "But I've wanted to marry you, as you know, 
from the first night I heard you sing — and more so 
now than ever before. Your ambition is laudable, 
your courage wonderful, but why not give up this 
endless toil, with its meagre pay and live the life of 
ease I offer you." 

235 



That night Jean Gray settled the matter for herself 
in the loneliness of her little room on the second floor 
back. It was a mighty struggle for this lonely slender 
little woman. To make the decision she had to sacri- 
fice her most cherished ideals. The idols she esteemed 
most had all to be broken. The romantic dreams of 
an unhappy girlhood must all be thrown to the winds. 
Ambitions she had nursed so long must now be aban- 
doned. All of her plans for a name and a career 
had to go at once. Fate had crossed her pathway and 
left her helpless. 

Then came the change from poverty to wealth as 
suddenly as had come the unexpected announcement 
that left her without work. The marriage was not 
long delayed and soon Jean Gray of Norris Station, 
late of a Broadway chorus, was quickly installed in 
one of the finest apartments on Riverside Drive. 

For weeks she lived. Night after night there were 
gay parties. True to old friends, Jean insisted on 
entertaining her girl friends of the chorus. These 
parties made her most popular with those with whom 
she had shared the bread of poverty. She was toasted 
and praised and loved. 

There were maids to do her bidding. There was a 
chauffer at her beck and call. The old worn dresses 
were cast aside for the most expensive Fifth Avenue 
could furnish. She had arisen, as if by Alladin 
touch, from pauper to princess. She was no longer 
Jean Gray of Norris Station, but queen in a home of 
mighty wealth. 

So long as the lights were bright, so long as laughter 
echoed in the gilded rooms, so long as the brimming 
glasses tinkled, she was happy. Light and laughter 
and smiles crowded out recollection and the hours sped 
merrily on. 

But when the lights were turned out, when the calm- 
ness of night stilled the noises of the street — when 

236 



memory withdrew the curtain from the face of recol- 
lection and left her all alone — then an old regret, a 
hunger, gnawed at her very soul. Jean Gray had sold 
herself for this. She was guilty. Innocence had been 
bartered in the market place for the gaudy tinsel of 
this artificial life. 



237 



A BLACK FEIDAY IN WALL STREET 



In that forest of tall buildings on the lower end 
of Manhattan Island life flows at a pace from day to 
day as nowhere else in the world. The day is short in 
hours, but long in fortunes made or lost. 

There is a sinister silence about the streets, serious 
looks on the faces you pass, but a quick movement in 
every step. 

The great piles of stone and steel which arise sky- 
ward house thousands of rapid thinking and calculat- 
ing brains. At the head of the king of these winding 
streets stands the upward pointing spire of old Trinity 
— a building seemingly out of place amid this modern 
Babylon of financial palaces. 

Here fortunes are made or lost daily. Here friend- 
ships are betrayed, millions turned from the debit or 
credit side of the ledger and men who begin the morn- 
ing with plenty often close the afternoon with every 
penny swept away. 

There is a tenseness in the atmosphere, in the move- 
ments and the looks of the people you pass — a tense- 
ness in everything that leaves an indelible impression. 

Those who "trade" in this most wonderful street in 
the world are powerfully influenced by superstition. 
They catch feverishly at every straw which shows the 
direction of the financial wind. Why men who deal 
on a large scale should be thus influenced has never 
been understood, but it is nevertheless a fact. 

Two weeks after Harry Oldys was married there 
hovered about Wall Street some sinister influence, the 
impression that a panic was brewing. There was a 
premonition that something unusual was about to take 

238 



place. It was not unlike the coming of a great equi- 
noctial storm in the tropics, which the natives under- 
stand and which makes them restless. 

On Friday, following his marriage two weeks be- 
fore, Oldys was a heavy buyer of a certain kind of 
popular stocks. The Exchange opened without any 
unusual excitement, but only remained so for a short 
time. 

After an hour men who had known the strain of ex- 
citement for years, became suddenly nervous. Hither- 
to cold, calculating faces grew pallid with the fear of 
impending evil. This sinister influence prevaded the 
entire Exchange, yet no one could explain it or give 
any reason for its existence. There was a loss of confi- 
dence, the fear of financial ruin. 

This impression broke like a storm in a few min- 
utes upon a multitude of financial leaders — a thing 
which had happened only a few times on such a scale, 
in the history of the Street. 

In less than half an hour pandemonium swept every- 
thing before it. Here a man of sixty saw the millions 
of a lifetime swept away from him. Over there a 
younger member watched his fortune go : — a beautiful 
country home as well as a city palace. And still 
another realized within a few minutes that a vast 
estate, left to him had dissapeared like a passing 
breeze. 

II 

The delirium of panic and fear passed. The ruffled 
sea of agitated souls calmed down, but not until un- 
told losses had been sustained. 

These losses left men ruined and in a bad humor. 
When the Exchange closed and Oldys realized that 
everything he possessed was gone, he went to his office 
in a most undecided frame of mind. Financial ruin 
drives men to all kinds of whims. Some of them hunt 

239 






revenge, others try suicide, while a few buck up and 
endeavor to recoup their losses. 

When Harry Oldys left the Exchange he was dazed 
and had no fixed idea as to what he would do. He 
was in an ugly mood and unfortunately found wait- 
ing for him in his office Blake Cornell, also a loser in 
the day's cleanup. Cornell had come to collect a claim 
over which there was a dispute. It was no time for 
such a transaction. 

After a few hot words the men standing on opposite 
sides of the heavy table in the centre of the room, 
scowled at each other like enraged animals. Wild 
epithets flew from one to the other. Alone, in the 
richly furnished office they fought in desperate rage, 
over-turning chairs and tables in the general meelee. 

Finally, breaking away from his antagonist Cornell 
drew his pistol, fired and Oldys fell dead on the richly 
carpeted floor. 

Then, in desperation over the day's losses, and with 
this new tragedy added to his misfortunes, Cornell 
turned the revolver to his temple and quickly ended 
his own life. 

Death looks upon these playthings of a day 
Aged wisdom in his heart, 
Noting how men with Tragedy will play 
As toys which soon depart. 

There was a hasty gathering of financiers in the 
little office where the tragedy of Black Friday had been 
enacted. The news flew swiftly and soon brought its 
crowd of the curious. Many there came who had 
profited by the day's turn and these looked at the two 
dead men with a kind of sentimental pity. 

"What a foolish thing to do," they whispered one to 
another, "why not buck-up and make the money back, 
recoupe, start over again." 

240 



Very nice philosophy that — but put yourself in the 
dead man's place. Who helps "the down and out?" 
The "Street" knows no pity, it has no soul, it is cold, 
calculating and forever looking out for "myself." 
There may be little excuse for suicide, for murder, but 
the two men lying there cold in death had passed be- 
yond the gates of "worry." An aged trader, as he left 
the room and understood the nature of their losses 
whispered to his comrade: "Fortunate for both; at 
last they have reached anchorage in a safe harbor." 

Ill 

When Fortune passed and down the roadway went, 
Taking her jeweled things and bags of gold 
The skies above with mist and clouds were blent: 
For without these she knew a life was sold. 

The few weeks of married "existence" had somewhat 
hardened the heart of Jean Oldys. Fortune had played 
her false, Fortune had not given her a fair chance — in- 
wardly she was bitter toward the world. 

And rightly the girl argued: "She had been left 
without parental help. Inheritance had bequeathed 
to her a burning ambition to accomplish, but denied 
her the means wherein to do the things to which she 
aspired. She possessed the natural talent, but what 
can talent do if buried in an unsympathetic country 
village. She had staked her all, taken the few dol- 
lars she had saved and risked a try-out on the stage. 
Even before she could get a fair start her little money 
was spent, the show failed and the girl was left 
stranded." 

And yet, after she had married Harry Oldys this 
sensitive girl felt many a time that her theatrical 
failure was not half so disastrous as her matrimonial 
adventure. The latter was something which Fate had 
forced upon her. Her stage failure was honest, she 

241 



had done the best she could, but misfortune overtook 
her and demanded that she abandon the idea of a 
career. She looked upon her marriage as dishonest — 
an act unjust both to herself and to her husband. She 
could not get away from this impression. True, she 
had told Oldys she did not love him, but would try to. 
Still that did not settle her account with life and she 
was unhappy. 

Most women on the stage would say that Jean Oldys 
was fortunate to the last degree. Not thus she. Even 
amid the wealth of her apartment deep down in her 
heart there was a resentment at what she termed her 
"failure." 

IV 

On the Black Friday afternoon when Harry Oldys 
was killed, his wife was at a matinee on Broadway. 
Driving home afterwards she bought an afternoon 
paper at her door and hurried up stairs. After taking 
off her things she opened the paper and was amazed 
to read across the page: "Harry Oldys and friend 
both killed in a double tragedy." 

Following this was a full account of the panic in 
Wall Street, how both men had lost their fortunes and 
the shooting which followed the resultant quarrel. 

For the first time since she had met Oldys a kindly 
feeling for him seemed to take possession of her. Tears 
came into her eyes and the man whom she had mar- 
ried for convenience appeared in a different light. 
He had been kind, considerate and attentive and while 
she had not been happy, somehow his help seemed to 
have tided her over a part of her career in a way 
which endeared his memory to her. After her pro- 
fessional failure this man had come at an opportune 
moment and placed all he had at her feet. 

Now he was gone and with him had flown the mil- 
lions which he was supposed to possess. Thoughts 
came to the little woman in rapid succession as she sat 

242 



there and tried to unravel what this all meant. The 
newspaper account had given a full history of her 
husband's losses during the panic and she quickly saw 
that she was back again where she started. 

The two months which followed wrought havoc in 
the life of this brave little woman. 

She had long been somewhat inclined to a faith in 
predestination — now she became a convert. 

There was a mysterious influence which seemed to 
thwart her every effort — so why attempt further. 
At last she faced an impenetrable wall. 

In a few days she discovered that not only had the 
Wall Street crash taken all of her husband's securi- 
ties, but that every piece of furniture in the apartment 
was covered by mortgage or claims of some kind. 

First was a warrant for her expensive automobile, 
which was taken away under forclosure proceedings. 

Then the Persian rugs and furniture were attached 
to satisfy some old debts. 

Finally came the delayed rent bills, which she could 
not pay. Alone with the officer of the law she pleaded 
— but the law is relentless and has no soul. 

Bankrupt of everything there was nothing left but 
to admit defeat — acknowledge the breaking down of a 
proud heart and take up life anew — but where and 
how? 

And yet a brave woman's resources are limitless. 
She will make a dozen new attempts and fight a score 
of battles while a man will allow himself to find a gut- 
ter. 

Thus in desperation Jean Gray Oldys donned her 
cheap widow's weeds — she could afford no other kind 
— and went out in search of work. 

How the world frowns upon one looking even for 
honest toil. The door will scarcely open, the reception 
is cold and the interview as brief as possible. The 
task of "work hunting" is the most painful of all 

243 



occupations. The slam of the door carries something 
akin to personal reproach. One becomes timid, skepti- 
cal and desperate. Each refusal makes the next 
approach all the harder. It is the bitterest of human 
experiences. 

For two days she went from place to place. Nowhere 
could she find an opening. On the third day, when 
hope was at its lowest ebb she found a position as 
waitress in what seemed a respectable theatrical board- 
ing house. 



244 



LOVE FOUND ITS OWN 



While personal history was so busy in the making 
in the life of Jean Gray, Barton Strong had been kept 
in London on long drawn out business. 

There were many meetings with prominent business 
men, made necessary to protect his large investments 
abroad. Many important contracts had to be drawn 
up and signed so as to tide over a period of years. He 
was compelled to visit a number of manufacturing 
centers so as to satisfy himself about loans which he 
was almost forced to make in order to protect the in- 
terest in these factories which he already held. The 
work was slow, tedious and trying, but in the early 
spring he began to see the end of his visit and the 
closing up of his last contract. 

Before leaving Norris Station his benefactress in- 
sisted that he write her no letters. It was not that 
she objected to hearing from him, but in making the 
request she had in mind the fact that any kind of cor- 
respondence might interfere with the theatrical work 
into which she was putting her utmost effort. 

In April Strong landed in New York. The thing 
which sweetened his home-coming most was the 
thought of seeing that slender slip of a girl, not be- 
cause she had saved his life but for that biggest of all 
reasons — he loved her. During all of his stay abroad 
she had been uppermost in his thoughts. Never a day 
passed but he thought of her and loved her more. 
It was the case of a man of the world who had wor- 
shipped money through the moulding period of youth, 
avoiding the touch of love — but when Jean Gray 
came into the range of his vision all the pent up and 

245 



neglected adoration for women burst upon him with 
redoubled force. It was not a case of idle fancy, to 
live for a day and fade, but a devotion which fixed 
itself in his life and made him the slave of one 
woman. Thus, through the long months of their sep- 
aration there was no lessening of his devotion — the 
flame burned with all the steadiness it possessed on the 
day he said: "I love you." 

After his arrival Strong took up some of his most 
important business and hurried through it as quickly 
as possible. Of course his long absence made much 
business urgent and yet he was soon ready for the 
task which appealed to him most. 

II 

But the task was not an easy one. Strong first 
called on the manager to whom he had given Jean a 
letter. The manager was enthused to see him and 
wanted to ask all kinds of questions about Europe. 
The manager hardly remembered — yes, he did recall — 
he had given Miss Gray a place in the chorus, but 
business had been bad. No, she did not advance — she 
had very little chance, as the show was taken off in 
January and since then he had not heard anything 
about her. It was cruel of Strong — and he felt guilty, 
but somehow he could not help smiling in his heart 
that she had evidently made no other headway. If 
she had failed then he had a chance. Her failure 
might mean his success. It was a dreadful confession 
he made to himself, yet he could not help being honest. 
If her ambitions fell down then, perhaps, she would 
listen to him. It was the only way he could win. 
Success on the stage would have meant failure of all 
his plans. 

Just as he was about to leave the manager's office 
that august individual seemed to recall to mind just 
who Jane Gray was. 

246 



"Wait a minute, sit down," he called to Strong. 
"I had almost forgotten. Miss Gray was with us 
until the show went under. Then I lost sight of her. 
Finally it seems she married that man Oldys, who 
used to be a regular Johnny about the stage entrance. 
Oldys was supposed to be rich — a wall street plunger, 
one of the kind who can never be rated in Bradstreet 
or Dun. We had a regular Black Friday here since 
you left and hundreds who were reputed rich were 
scalped in the professional scramble. Oldys got in a 
hot argument down in the street and was killed — the 
other man also shooting himself. I think they had 
been married only a few weeks, but she did not come 
back and I have not heard of her since. Strange you 
did not hear about the shooting — it was the sensation 
here." 

How calmly the manager spoke of her marriage, 
while Strong was put to a severe test in controlling 
his feelings. Within him boiled a wild desire to know 
where she was and what she was doing. Suddenly 
he became anxious to go. Then thanking the man- 
ager for his courtesy he went out to take up what 
seemed almost a hopeless task. 

Ill 

A great city is the most secure hiding place in the 
world. The greater the crowds the more difficult it is 
to be found. When Strong began his search for Jean 
Oldys he knew all the difficulties which faced him. 

First he interviewed an old newspaper friend and 
found out all the details about Oldys, his murder and 
his financial failure. A telephone message to her old 
home brought no news, save that she was still work- 
ing in New York. The girl evidently kept in touch 
with her home, but no doubt was too proud to give any 
details of the tragedy which had come into her life— 
her failure on the stage, her marriage to save her the 

247 



humiliation of returning home and her final coming 
down to the humble position of a waitress. Strong 
could read through it all the very course this little 
woman would take as misfortune dogged her footsteps. 

First he went from one theatrical booking agency to 
another. Nowhere was her name to be found on the 
records. But theatrical people had a way of wearing 
any kind of name and he knew this. As likely as not 
she was working under some other name. 

Then he took up the task of attending all the shows, 
getting as near the stage as possible, to make sure of 
finding her. He scanned the face of every actress, 
but alas ! the one face he wanted was not to be found. 

The man became hopeless. Was it possible that the 
one woman he loved in all the world was not to be 
found? He even thought of going to other cities and 
keeping up the search among stage folks, but that 
seemed entirely too hopeless and he abandoned the 
idea. 

IV 

Finally Barton Strong had taken apartments in the 
lower forties, near Fifth Avenue, where he now made 
his home. 

One morning he had slept late. Discouraged, for 
once in his life this methodical and practical man, 
was nervous and filled with indecision. Coming down 
on the street he noticed a respectable looking break- 
fast room nearby and hastened into it for his coffee 
and rolls. 

He took a small table near a window and was 
glancing over the morning paper which was held up 
in such a way as to conceal his face, as he hurried over 
the financial page. A maid approached to take his 
order and as he looked up, as if coming out of the dim 
past, there stood before him Jean Oldys, in her im- 
maculate serving dress. 

248 



Both faces met and were recognized at the same 
moment. 

She quickly drew back and tried to leave the room, 
but he caught her arm and said: — 

"Dear Jean, I have heard all. The manager has 
told me, but I did not know it was as bad as this." 

V 

Time heals old scars with surprising quickness. 
Out of the depths we arise to heights we never thought 
we could reach. Nature is the great physician and this 
healing process is a part of her wonderful work in 
human souls as well as in the valley, the fields, and the 
silent woods. When the mid-winter wind blows along 
the hillside, driving the stubble of decayed weeds be- 
fore it, it seems as if all vegetation is dead for all 
time. Yet in a few months the silver rains of April 
fall, the glowing sunshine warms the soil and soon 
every blossom finds its place again above the sodden 
ground. 

The process of healing goes on constantly. The 
sturdy oak covers up the ugly cut received when it was 
young and hides beneath its bark the inward wound. 
A profusion of spring blossoms flourishes over the 
wreck made by the winter winds. 

A great misfortune overtakes us. No way of escape 
seems left. We weep in silence and feel that the mor- 
tal wound can never heal. The weeks come and go and 
after awhile laughter takes the place of a down-cast 
face. Slowly the old hurt becomes less painful and 
in a short time even the memory of it is lost. Time is 
good to the unfortunate. 

Heredity likewise loses its powerful influence in our 
human experience. This, however, is the strongest ele- 
ment in our make-up to overcome. Getting away from 
its influence to many is almost impossible. In the case of 
Jean Gray it set its mark upon her life with an indel- 

249 



ible force. The blood of her father flowed powerfully 
through her own veins. Pride held her as no other in- 
fluence. Like her ancestor, also ambition was hard 
to conquer. It was a part of her nature. When the 
man offered her his hand and heart the womanly in- 
stinct within bade her "accept." There was peace, 
content, home, the ingle-nook of domestic glory and 
most of all there was Love, which never for a moment 
she doubted. But her ambition stood in the way and 
more than that the old instinct of pride which the un- 
fortunate father had bequeathed her. These things 
held her aloof from accepting happiness, which could 
have been hers for the taking. 

Fortunately it is difficult, a difficult thing to run 
amuck of nature. Whoever chooses that course must 
pay the price of obstinacy and God knows Jean Gray 
had paid dearly for the course she had taken. Mis- 
fortunes came thick and fast. Her suffering went to 
the uttermost and when the uttermost had been 
reached she was fortunate enough to have the man 
who loved her come with a renewal offer of his love. 

VI 

A year from the time Barton Strong had found 
Jean Oldys serving in a boarding house — with all the 
humiliation that meant to her — these two children of 
Fate were standing on the railroad platform at Nor- 
ris Station, waiting for the 12:30 train to carry them 
away on their wedding journey. During all the inter- 
vening months the man had never wavered a moment in 
his love and devotion for her. Since the day he re- 
covered consciousness in her home and saw her watch- 
ing at his bedside his fixed idea was to marry her some 
day and he never once doubted that sooner or later 
she would accept his offer. 

As the train was heard approaching in the distance 
she looked up to him and said: — 

250 



"After all this is the first day in my life when, 
somehow, I feel sure of myself." 

To which he quickly replied: "Because this is the 
first day that puts you beyond the reach of pride." 



251 



MAGDALENE 

My art is old as the oldest age — 
None know when it first began, 
My lamps have burned in the hermitage 
Of sin, since the birth of man. 

A story of the Christ time — and of characters brought from 
history's early pages — before the advent of modern science 
and modern luxury — and yet the motives underlying and im- 
pelling the actions of its peoples are the same as today. 

Out of the "Stony Desert" came a rude character whose soul 
was fired with religious enthusiasm, the influence of which was 
so strongly stamped upon his only child that after she had 
sinned away her early womanhood, the father's zeal for good 
made her a convert to the teachings of the great Master, who 
then walked upon the earth. 

Interwoven through this story of hereditary influence is the 
old, old mystery of Love, which, after all, is the basis of every- 
thing good in human activities. 



253 



FROM DESERT DUST TO CITY STAIN 



A long caravan of Syrian Traders winds slowly 
across the desert sands toward Jerusalem. It was cus- 
tomary for travelers in the early Christain era to make 
their trips in as large groups as possible for mutual 
protection from outlaws which infested the holy land 
and its adjacent territory. 

On this particular occasion, seen from a distance, 
this caravan looked like a strand of mottled ribbon, 
lying across the white sands of the desert. In the 
make up of its personelle were all classes — the good, 
the bad, the indifferent — all travelling en masse, not 
from any friendly motive, but purely as a matter of 
self-protection. In this polyglot mixture were the 
rich, the poor, the innocent, the bandit and the relig- 
ious enthusiast. Self protection and self preservation 
was the only tie which bound the multitude together. 

Each night a camp was formed, circular in shape, 
the weary camels forming the outer rim, inside were 
the camp-fires, rude tents and the sleeping places 
for the party. 

Under the white starlight of the desert a few were 
required to remain on watch during the long night as 
protection from marauding parties of bandits which 
infested all parts of that unfortunate country. 

On this afternoon, in the year 22 A. D. the party 
had hoped to reach the holy city but the distance was 
deceptive. A last camp was therefore laid and the 
weary travelers made ready for the night just as the 
sun was going down over the dead sea. 

In the party was Joel Akker, his wife and ten year 
old daughter Magdalene. They came from a part of 
Syria known as the "Stony Desert," one of the most 

254 



hopeless sections in all of that hopeless country. For 
years Akker had tried to support his little family, 
but nature was so grudging — so ungenerous among 
the white sands of his home, that he had decided to 
leave the desert and try his fortunes, as a trader, in 
the city. 

What little he possessed was packed in a few bas- 
kets, which his one poor camel carried. Akker was 
deeply religious and was trusting in his God, linked 
with his religious fervor to make his change a success. 
He was industrious, honest, and enterprising, but 
staked more on his sacrifices and devotion to pull him 
through, than on his individual efforts. 

After the camp was arranged and in the gathering 
darkness, he took his wife and daughter out into the 
wild brush, for his evening devotion. The camp was 
no place for prayer. Too many of his companions 
would laugh him to scorn, so he drew aside from the 
crowd for his last evening's devotion, before his new 
life should begin in the crowded city on the morrow. 

In a secluded spot the three knelt down for prayer. 
Akker bared his bosom to the light of the stars and 
throwing his head back, with hands clasped he prayed, 
finishing his long petition with these words: — 

"And now, Thou Eternal One, be merciful to thy 
servants. We go hence into a new and untried life. 
We know not what awaits us there for good or evil. 
No matter what befalls us — if thy servant shall fail in 
this new effort — care thou for my faithful wife, and 
even more, guard and guide the feet of my innocent 
child. I tremble at the change we are making, but I 
lay hold of thy promise to protect these two, who are 
so close to the sacred love I bear Thee. Next to that 
love for Thee, I love them best and Thou wilt not let 
them suffer." 

Thus ending his prayer, Akker unclasped his hands, 
placing one on the head of his wife at the right and 
the other upon the dark tresses of his beloved Mag- 

255 



dalene, and for a moment the three heads were bent in 
silence, before arising to go. 

Quietly they arose and faced towards the camp. 
Near-by the camp fires flickered on the plain below and 
in the distance could be seen the lights of the great 
city — glimmering dimly upon the horizon. 

The orient sky was dusted thick with stars: 
Some twinkled bright with lustre — some were dim 
Through mist of arid sands — and some to him 
Stood far away, like sentinel that bars 
The gates of home, beyond the desert's rim. 

II 

Joel Akker found life in the great city far different 
from what he had expected. In his desert home was 
peace, repose, poise, quiet and everything which added 
to his deep religious instinct. Out there in "Stony 
Desert" poverty had become a comrade. The struggle 
for bread was intense, but with it all he had soul con- 
tentment. That compensated in a measure for phy- 
sical suffering. Religion meant more to him than 
material comfort. 

In the city he was compelled to live in a most vicious 
section, where Sin laughed at him from day to day. 
His devotions were reviled and his prayers scoffed at 
by unbelievers on every side. He even had personal 
combats with those who jeered at what they called 
his "pretence." 

All of this he could bear, in a way, but his beloved 
Magdalene was compelled to see Sin paraded before 
her from day to day. She was only ten years old and 
the father shuddered in wonder, as to what effect her 
environment might have upon the helpless child. He 
held firmly to his faith in the value of prayer for his 
daughter and yet in spite of this Akker worried him- 
self into such a frenzy of mental strain that when a 

256 



scourge of cholera swept through the vile street in 
which they lived — both himself and wife were quickly- 
marked as victims and died within the same week. 

Ill 

Thus deprived of both parents Magdalene faced the 
problem of a homeless child — among a class of ac- 
quaintances who showed her little pity. She was 
forced to accept shelter in the home of those whom her 
father had angered and likewise compelled to toil 
incessantly in order to obtain shelter and food. En- 
vironed thus by Sin it was but small wonder that this 
slender girl, of surpassing beauty, should naturally 
fall into the pathways of the vicious and for a time 
follow the roadway of the erring. 

Wisdom comes with years. Youth lacks the fore- 
sight which experience must teach. Necessity is a ter- 
rible master — often driving unwilling feet into the by- 
ways of Sin. Hunger and Want will always tempt 
the unwary. No matter how deep may be the inherent 
instinct for good, Necessity will cloud the vision and 
before the victim is aware the most fatal mistakes may 
be made. 

It was thus with Magdalene Akker, that, in spite of 
parental instinct for virtue and purity, the dictates of 
Necessity were so powerful on account of environment, 
that for a time the voice of a father's influence was 
lost and she was enmeshed in the net of sin. 



257 






A NEW PKOPHET IN AN OLD COUNTEY 



It is ten years later. All Palestine is aroused by the 
preaching of the great prophet. People flock to Jeru- 
salem from all sections — many out of curiosity — and 
some to hear and believe. It is the greatest era in 
the history of a great country. Everywhere the new 
prophet and his teaching are discussed. The wise 
shake their heads in doubt, many of the ignorant listen 
and are more ignorant still. Men fight about this 
new messenger; — old faiths are broken up; the idols 
of tradition are shattered. The very foundation of 
Jewish religion is threatened. 

II 

Among the new-comers, purely out of curiosity, is 
a youth from the sheep country back of Lebanon, Elsas 
Tubal. With ample means the great city charmed his 
poetic soul, but even amid his sensual enjoyments, 
Elsas was strangely attracted by the preaching of 
this new prophet. While he did not subscribe to the 
new faith he was a frequent listener to the great teacher 
in and about Jerusalem. 

One day Elsas was listening to the Master as he 
taught in the temple. It was the occasion when the 
scribes and pharisees — the over-lords of the Jewish 
faith — brought in the guilty woman and asked Him 
what should be done with her — tempting him that 
they might accuse him — should his interpretation be 
contrary to the old Mosaic law. When the case had 
been stated the Master said: — 

"He that is without sin among you let him first 
cast a stone against her." 

258 



Elsas, from his concealed position in the temple, 
watched the proceeding with a deep interest. 

The rabble became silent. The Master was looking 
down at the floor and one by one the guilty accusers 
slipped out of the hall. 

The first to go out were those with the blood-stain 
of murder upon their hands. They started, hesitated, 
looked again and then slunk from the room, for these 
could not cast a stone. 

Next Elsas noted the agitation of those whose hands 
were filled with ill-gotten money, the crafty and heart- 
less traders, conscience smitten, and one by one these 
left the temple, helpless on account of their own guilt. 

Afterwards followed those who had robbed the 
widow and the orphan; those who had given false 
witness against their neighbor and so on — none of 
whom could cast a stone against her. 

"When Jesus had lifted up himself and saw none 
but the woman, he said unto her : 'Woman, where are 
those thine accusers? Hath no man condemned thee?' 

"She said: 'No man, Lord.' And Jesus said unto 
her: 'Neither do I condemn thee, go, and sin no 
more.' " 

Quietly Elsas went out of the temple. The incident 
had made a profound impression upon him. Though 
without any fixed religious faith himself, the direct 
teaching of the Master had impressed him deeply and 
while the incident did not change his manner of living 
he was determined, from that day forward, to learn 
more of the philosophy this Nazarene was teaching. 
It marked the first stage of a new life which was to 
follow him later on. 

Ill 

A few days following the above incident the Master 
had started on a journey to Bethany, but his progress 
was slow, owing to the crowds which pressed him along 

259 



the road over which he traveled. Already his fame 
had gone abroad and everywhere people clamored 
about him, some to hear him preach, but in most 
cases to have him heal their sick. 

Then, as now, men were seeking physical rather than 
spiritual healing. It was easy to conceal the one in 
a plea for the other. 

It was a bright morning. A great crowd filed out 
of the ancient city of Jerusalem. Foremost was the 
Master, with a few of his disciples. A mile out in the 
country and the followers had increased to a mass of 
humanity — many carrying their sick ones on stretchers 
and pleading to be healed. 

The Master paused on a high bluff and commenced 
preaching. In response to insistence he occasionally 
healed some invalid who had been pressed before him 
by friends. The shouts of the cured and the murmur 
of the multitude arose with a strange sound on the 
morning air. 

Two marked characters stood apart, looking on in 
half critical indifference — one a Pharisee and the other 
a Sadducee. As they listened they discussed the merits 
and demerits of this new prophet, who had torn 
asunder their whole religious fabric. 

Pharisee : — 

"This may be the promised Messiah. Who can tell ? 
And still his coming is not yet due. Such a prophet 
as this, must come, according to our records — but 
this man is here before his time." 

Sadducee : — 

"Ah! Thomas, don't be deceived. This man 
preaches future punishments, angels, spirits, demons 
— all of which the priestly aristocracy of our Saddu- 
cees deny. We believe in the freedom of human will 
and not in such cant as that man yonder advocates." 

260 



Pharisee : — 

"After all, this may be the promised one, and if so 
then our kingdom on earth will be established. I 
was out at Bethany the day he raised Lazarus from 
the dead and I could not believe what my own eyes 
had seen. I tell you, Simon, there is something un- 
usual about his coming. Strange things have hap- 
pened. Strange things are happening every day. 
See there! He has healed a palsied man — one who 
could not walk — now see him leap and run — see him 
kiss the Master's feet — listen to the roar of the mul- 
titude. As for me, I'm all mystified." 

Sadducee : — 

"Thomas, you are not fit to hold your high office 
in the synagogue. You are an unbeliever — an apos- 
tate. Yon man is a false prophet. He teaches that 
men are possessed of evil spirits and that he can 
drive them out. If we accept this new religion 
then all our teachings are set at naught. Are you 
going to accept something which upsets all the tra- 
ditions of our fathers? I think not." 

Pharisee : — 

"I cannot decide, Simon. The man's power is a 
wonder to me. I was close to him that day in Mary's 
house, when he raised her brother from the dead. 
A strange feeling came over me, as if I stood in the 
presence of a God. It was overpowering. I felt 
like kneeling before him and accepting the gospel 
he preached. I'm worried, Simon. Think, if he 
is the Messiah, what a glory for our race!" 
And the two men walked slowly away still debating 

a theme which was foremost in every mind. 



261 



THE SCAELET ROAD 



Strange are the slow developments which spring 
from individuality. Soul-power is the greatest force 
in the make-up of human character. Almost uncon- 
sciously a new being will develop from the old. Out 
of the chrysalis of ugliness will suddenly come the 
summer butterfly, with silken wings and golden colors. 
Seemingly, without help, this metamorphosis will take 
place and the individual himself will be surprised at 
the great transition. 

It was thus with Magdalene Akker. Buried in pov- 
erty — with no hand to aid — this wild rose of the desert 
bloomed out in all its beauty — and she scarcely knew 
just how. 

And yet back of such changes there is always a 
soul-power which makes the change possible. With- 
out this one drifts with the tide of circumstance — 
one becomes and remains a part of its own environ- 
ment. While thousands drift with the tide one in 
a thousand will exert its inherent power and come to 
the surface. 

Magdalene had been left alone in the world, amid 
a poverty-ridden class, with never a hand held out to 
assist her. How she lived during the ten years after 
the death of her parents, she scarcely knew. It all 
seemed like a dream. Want and crime and vicious- 
ness had been her constant companions, but she 
never became a part of these. An inherent power 
seemed to keep her aloof from those among whom she 
moved. 

And yet, like the chrysalis, she hung for years amid 
the ugliness of her environment, but becoming no part 
of its life — only so far as necessity demanded. 

262 



Finally, however, the old shell of decay was broken 
and the butterfly came forth in all its glory. This 
girl of the "stony desert," blossomed into a woman of 
surprising beauty and admirers followed her every 
footstep. It is true she had slipped from the pathway 
of purity, but only from the barest necessity. So long 
had she lived among the sinning that she scarcely 
knew when the first wrong step was taken, save the 
natural inherent feeling which comes to every one who 
goes astray. And yet so deeply fixed was her sense of 
right and wrong that after the first few mistakes, she 
was able to keep aloof from following the wrong road 
and instead of living a life of open shame Magdalene 
found that her admirers were such that her bright 
company could take the place of a baser life. 

In some way the wealthy found their way to her 
house, attracted by her beauty and a personality that 
charmed. She opened a little shop, which prospered 
far beyond her fondest dreams. Back of this and a 
part of it was a richly furnished salon, where her 
friends gathered from day to day. 

It is true that in a few instances she had been 
guilty of attracting rich customers there, where they 
would buy wine liberally and on a few occasions had 
gone so far as to aid in getting money from these, 
in a manner then in vogue, which her conscience told 
her was wrong and of which she always repented. 
She had finally decided to abandon these transactions 
entirely — after a final payment was made to clear her 
house of debt. It was one of these final transactions 
which put a check upon her gilded career and 
answered the fervent prayer of her devoted father 
the day before they entered the city. 

II 

"I'm older than sin — older than crime 
These two came since my birth, 
The world first heard my name in rhyme 
Then linked my smile with mirth. 
263 



It was a night of all nights — one such as old Egypt 
alone could produce. The sky was shot through with 
its thousands of stars, each standing out clear in the 
rarefied atmosphere. The milky-way was luminous 
with its clustered constellations, which the shepherds, 
who slept on the hillsides, had not been able to separate 
and name. 

From the sea came a lazy wind, tinged with a salty 
smell. There were odors, too, of tropical flowers in the 
air, all intensified under the glory of night-fall. 

The brown complexioned student, Elsas Tubal, from 
the hill country of Lebanon, was walking aimlessly 
through a dark street. Well dressed and groomed, 
he wore all the evidences of a rich new-comer to the 
great city of Jerusalem. Of its evils he knew little, 
having been attracted there to see the great prophet. 

Magdalene had by chance seen Elsas Tubal and had 
set her heart on meeting him. She called in to assist 
her a man, Jonas, and together they planned to bring 
him to her house. They arranged to walk the street 
together as brother and sister, engage him in conver- 
sation and invite him to the little salon for a glass of 
wine. Deeper intentions were back of the scheme, 
so far as Jonas was concerned, but so far as that part 
of the contract went, the woman failed utterly. 

After passing Elsas on the street the pair turned 

back and approaching him asked: — 

Jonas: — "Excuse us, sir, but may we ask the time. 

We were to meet some friends here, but it seems 

they are late, or we have misunderstood." 

Elsas: — "It is now two hours after sunset. If I can 

assist you command my services." 
Jonas: — "No thank you, we shall wait. The night is 

glorious, wonderful, picturesque." 
Elsas: — "Such a night as makes the lonely soul cry out 
for comradeship." 

264 



Jonas: — "I trust you are not so unfortunate as to be 
lonely in this great city. Are you a stranger 
here?" 
Elsas: — "Yes, I came from Lebanon and arrived 
only a few days since. I came out of curiosity to 
see the great prophet and only this noon I heard 
him preach out there near the mount. Also saw 
him heal a poor leper who could not walk. It all 
had a strange effect upon me, but I cannot accept 
this new doctrine he preaches." 
Jonas : — "Just another of the many false prophets, my 
friend, who have infested our country of late 
years. Allow us to be comrades: My name is 
Jonas and allow me to introduce my sister." 
The student was jolly from over indulgence and 
soon became very friendly, inviting the two to join 
him at a nearby inn for refreshments. They demur 
and ask him to their private home, which he readily 
accepts. 

The house was located away from the main street, 
the entrance being through a little garden, redolent 
with tropical blossoms. 

This was the home of Magdalene Akker, Jonas 
being a kind of accomplice whom she used as occasion 
demanded. In a way Fate had been kind to her. Out 
of her helpless orphanage she had prospered, far be- 
yond her fondest hopes. 

And yet, until that moment, she had never known 
what love could mean to a woman's soul. She had 
been wooed by many heartless satellites, who flitted, 
like moths, about this dangerous flame of the desert. 
But when she looked into the blue eyes of Elsas Tubal, 
this clean, gentle, soft voiced youth from the country, 
a new light shone upon her dark past, which caused 
the woman to tremble. 

So when the three entered her luxurious house, she 
wavered in her pledge to keep her compact with Jonas. 

265 



They were all to drink together, Jonas was to dis- 
appear, Magdalene was to draw the student on with 
her Lilith smile and when he bent over to kiss her, 
Jonas, as the brother, was to re-enter, enraged, and 
demand satisfaction. 

For a while they sat around a little table and sipped 
the wine. As they did so the youth told, in eloquent 
tones, of hearing the Master preach out there on the 
road to Bethany. The woman listened intently, for 
there was something in the very softness of his words 
she had never heard before. She was entranced — she 
was lifted out of her old life — something new had hap- 
pened to her — she knew not what — but a new light 
shone ahead. Every word from the lips of Elsas came 
as music — love for the first time had smote her soul 
and she did not know it. 

At the opportune moment Jonas disappeared, leav- 
ing the two together. Magdalene became oblivious 
of everything save the pictured face of the youth be- 
fore her. She even forgot her compact with her accom- 
plice. Elsas was still telling her about the wonderful 
Gallilean, when she raised her head and said : — 
Magdalene: — "I will hear him some day. Tell me 
about yourself, your beautiful country and the 
sweet, clean life you live among the hills." 
She was conscious of her own beauty. She had 
never doubted that; and of her strange power to 
attract men. Yet, not until this night did she feel 
helpless before the gaze of any one. This slender 
youth, meek, unassuming and unsophisticated, some- 
how, bent every fibre of her proud spirit and made 
her helpless before his gaze. Finally he answered 
her: — 

Elsas: — "The life among the hills is very lonely. We 

see little of life and know less. I've seen and lived 

more since I came to your city than ever before. 

And yet our life there has its compensations. 

266 



We live close to the great soul of Nature. — We 

talk to the trees, the stars, the sky, and hang about 

our door-ways garlands of flowers that bloom 

everywhere." 

While the youth was still speaking, tears came into 

the woman's eyes and she stretched her hands to him 

in a pleading attitude which said, "Come." No word 

was uttered — it was simply the silent language of a 

love-awakened soul, calling out of its sordid depths 

for comradeship. 

Before either knew what had happened their lips 
had touched — and at this Jonas entered with a dis- 
gusted rage pictured upon his face. 
Jonas: — "And this in the house of your new-made 
friends, within sight of the empty glasses of hos- 
pitality, still fragrant with the sweet wine. How 
dare you do this thing? You will pay for this 
either with money or your life." 
And as Jonas started menacingly towards the youth 
the woman seized his arms with a powerful grip, 
throwing her accomplice upon a nearby couch. While 
the struggle went on Elsas quietly slipped out of the 
door and was soon lost in the crowded street beyond. 
After the confusion subsided Magdalene arose to her 
full height and looking the man in the face said : — 
Magdalene: — "To-night we part company. My art is 
a thing of the past. I shall have no further use 
for your scheming, I will be no longer your ac- 
complice in crime. Out of my ignorance a new 
vision has come to me. I'm on the wrong road- 
way." 
Jonas attempted to reply, but the woman lifted her 
hand in a threatening attitude and said: — 
Magdalene : — "Go, — forever." 



267 



THE PRICE OF DESPAIR 



The world is flooded each year with insipid stories 
of human life, sickly love -tales abound, the great 
presses thunder day and night turning out books, 
which barely touch the surface of human passions. 

It seems to have become unethical to write of life 
as it really is — unless the story be of some one's ex- 
perience which is not worth telling. The real book of 
the future must deal with soul experience, with those 
who have gone down into the very depths of the hell, 
called "Agony" and lay bare the life — no matter how 
crimson that life might have been. 

We are coming, too, closer to a great truth than 
ever before, that heredity leaves its taint from gener- 
ation to generation, the stain, as a rule, being so deep 
that our finest civilization cannot blot out or sup- 
press it. 

II 

In this instance Magdalene Akker was a creature of 
environment. She was a child of circumstance. She 
inherited a strong, normal, religious character from 
both mother and father, but all of this was suppressed 
by the environment in which a cruel Fate left her. 
The strong character was there undisturbed during 
young womanhood but it was suppressed by adverse 
surroundings. She grew up among the vicious and in 
the simplicity of a child followed the ways of the 
vicious — until circumstances had placed, or fixed her 
in a life to which she did not belong. 

But even years of coarse living could not stifle the 
real woman which was in her. No doubt her soul — 
in its quiet hours — rebelled against all that she did to 

268 



gain bread and wine for life. No doubt something 
within her cried out in agony when she did what was 
flagrantly wrong. And yet circumstance had set her 
feet in this road — Fate had fixed her place in the 
scarlet world and thus environed how could a helpless 
woman break away? 

She waited long unconsciously. Magdalene did not 
know that she was waiting for a better life to lift her 
out of the old. At times she rebelled at her frivolous 
existence, because the woman had a real soul — and the 
real soul always — in some way — finds the light. 

Her better self had never been awakened from its 
lethargy until the young Shepherd from the hills 
crossed her path. Until then no man had ever aroused 
the woman love which slept in her heart. But when 
this youth came upon the horizon of her life, when 
he leaned over and kissed her, then Love came like a 
storm and broke through her being in all its fury. 
The woman in her was conquered by the very gentle- 
ness of this youth. God's thunders of repentance also 
sounded through the depths of her soul and Magdalene 
arose, as if dazed, at the new light which had shone in 
upon her wayward life. 

Ill 

When Jonas left she sat and gazed into vacant 
space, trying to realize what had happened so sud- 
denly. It all seemed so strange to her — the awakening 
out of the old into the new life. 

From the floor she picked up a half withered flower 
which Elsas had dropped as he hastily left the room. 
It was a small token, but she kissed the petals and 
slipped it into the folds of her dress. Then putting 
on a cloak she went into the street hurriedly — hoping 
she might find Elsas at the Inn where he had dined. 
But alas, no one there knew him. She then walked 
through one street after another, gazing intently into 

269 



each passing face. It was a strange experience to 
Magdalene — these old familiar streets were no longer 
the same to her — and would never be the same again. 
The old life was a thing of the past — a thing to be for- 
gotten — to be sealed with its memories forever. A new 
life had sprung up within — it was vibrating, exulting. 
Love had kindled a new light in her soul. 

After mid-night she went home in despair. She 
fixed her couch by a window, so she could watch the 
stars — the constellations of which he had spoken so 
beautifully. On the morrow she would find him and he 
would love her and take her away to his own sweet 
country. Thus watching the stars — his stars — she fell 
into a light sleep — all filled with dreams of a new life 
which stretched beyond. 

But Fate had willed that Magdalene should not 
escape punishment so easily. First she must pay in 
full the penalty for the life she had led. There is no 
easy escape from Sin. The accounts must be balanced 
and the last farthing paid. 

For weeks she searched the city, but to no avail. 
Face after face looked into hers, but never the one she 
sought. Each night she kept vigil at her window 
thinking he might return. At last she realized that 
perhaps he was gone and she might never see him 
again. 

IV 

Then it was that contrition, that greatest disturber 
of human happiness, came into her soul and waited. 
She tried in vain to throw off the feeling, but it was 
there to stay. She even thought of going back to her 
old life and try to forget, but then Love arose in her 
heart and said, "no." 

Magdalene suddenly remembered what Elsas had 
told her of the great Master and after weeks of suffer- 
ing she went out on the road to Bethany one day, where 
he was preaching at the house of Mary. There she 

270 



leaned upon a balustrade and listened. His words 
fell like blessings upon her naked soul. Tears filled 
her eyes and she trembled with fear as the Master 
said : — 

"Ye who are weary, ye who have sinned, ye whom 
disappointments have overtaken, come unto me and I 
will give you peace. Forget and renounce the past, 
cast your burdens upon me and I will make you free. 
No matter how stained you are with sin, how scarred 
your soul may be, believe in me and faith will heal 
your wounds." 

The words fell upon her bleeding heart like a 
healing balm. Repentance whipped her like a Fury. 
All of her past came up like a vision before her eyes, 
now blinded with tears. It was the second crucial 
moment in her life — the first when Love came in and, 
as she thought, closed the door and shut her in with 
Happiness. Yet this moment o'erwhelmed the other — 
it was fraught with bitterness, yet through that bitter- 
ness of deep-lying grief — she could, even now, see the 
sunlight of content. 

Great crowds surged about the Master as he finished, 
imploring him to heal their sick, many of which they 
had brought along. It was a wonderful contrast — 
the throngs begging for physical healing and this 
scarlet woman praying that her soul be cleaned of sin. 
And yet it was but a picture of the world at large — 
the multitude asking for security from bodily suffer- 
ing while one lone penitent cries out for pardon. 

When the Master had dispersed the crowd he went 
into the cool shade of the court yard. As he rested 
there Magdalene approached, unseen, and kneeling 
at his feet wept in silent agony. She drew from the 
folds of her dress a box of costly perfume and with it 
bathed his feet. Suddenly her grief was turned to joy 
and looking up she said: 

"Master, My Master." 

271 



And the great prophet, looking down upon this re- 
pentant woman answered: — 

"Thy sins are forgiven thee; go in peace." 



272 



AFTER MANY YEARS 

The spirit of racing — the very foundation of our 
American predisposition to gamble — lay dormant in 
the daughter of Thomas May. Mixed with that spirit 
were the other related vices which belong to the fol- 
lowers of the race track. 

In Ethel May these sins of the father came out with 
uncontrollable force — at least sufficiently strong to 
wreck and ruin her life. The Curse of Heredity leaves 
its indelible mark from which there is no possible 
escape until the woman has passed through her Geth- 
semane of suffering and found peace in the great love 
of the man for whom she sinned. 



273 



AFTEE MANY YEAKS 

A June Morning. Bryant Park, New York. Thomas May, 
Jr., a wealthy broker of thirty, unmarried, a philosopher, 
skeptical, a hater of cant and creeds, but sincere in his ideals. 
Nathan Wallstein, a Jewish money lender, noted for his finan- 
cial foresight, a pillar in his church, but shady in his money 
deals and reputed friend of the underworld, from whose char- 
acters he exacted heavy interest on large deals. A chance meet- 
ing in the park is followed by a spirited argument between 
these opposite individuals : 

Wallstein : — 

Good morning, Thomas, you stir early for one of 
your class. The street must be dull today or you 
would hardly come out in this beautiful park to en- 
joy the perfume of this first spring morning. Give 
thanks to your god for this gracious sunshine and 
the sight of yon crimson poppies. 

May: — 

Your religion, Nathan, is too much of the lips and 
not enough of the heart. I saw the record of a loan 
made yesterday, a record whose lines are writ in 
blood. It is a mystery to me that one who professes 
the religion you claim, could go so far away from 
its teachings and become a friend to the underworld 
by making such an unusual loan to further the 
schemes of sin. 

Wallstein : — 

Beware of your unfriendly criticism, Thomas, it 
reflects upon my religion and is an insult to my 
great Master, the Christ. 

May: — 

Your religion, Nathan, is a myth, a shadow. So 
far as I can see your soul is poverty-stricken. I 
must believe you are too sensible to deceive yourself. 
Listen to me ! you cover your footsteps well, but 

274 



after all you leave traces of your erratic enterprise. 
Only yesterday you left the record of a loan in 
yonder court that will remain as a curse upon your 
ungodly head. You loaned fifty thousand dollars 
to a Magdalene of the lowest type. You know the 
woman! you know how notorious she is. She has 
just furnished a palace of sin and your fifty thou- 
sand dollars added the finishing touches to its luxury. 
Its tapestried walls, 
Its curtained rooms, 
Its winding stairways, 
Its carpeted floors, 

Have all the show of a modern palace. 
Its lighting effects glow with splendor, 
Ebony lamps burn low in every nook, 
Embroidery of the finest texture, 
Couches of silken weave, 

And curtains of gold hang from every doorway. 
Soft music will vibrate through this house of sin, 
Which you have helped furnish with your money. 
Pungent incense will permeate the labyrinth 
of rooms, every device to please the senses: 
Beauty, 
Music, 
Perfume, 
Wine, 

Like the whisper of ardent lovers 
Will be found in this palace of passion. 
You know, Nathan, this house of scarlet, 
You know this mecca of the lewd 
And your money has added to its glory. 
Wallstein : — 

But you do not understand, Thomas, the incen- 
tive back of this loan. Some one else would loan 
this money, so why not I ? The rate of interest is so 
high that my income will be largely increased. My 
gifts to the house of God will be correspondingly 
large. Henceforth my tithes will be enhanced an 

275 






hundred fold. Now do you see the wisdom of my 
loan? 

May: — 

Alas ! thou blinded man ! 
Don't you know what this money will do? 
This Magdalene is notorious in half a 
dozen large cities in this country. 
Her cleverness surpasses the cunning of 
a serpent. She weaves a web that entangles 
the wisest. She plays for the rich, for the 
influential socially and politically. Black- 
mail is as much her game as social ruin and 
political hold-up. 

Your gold, Nathan, will send forth her emis- 
saries and bring to her threshold the un- 
suspecting. She deals only with the fairest 
and with the unfortunates of rich families. 
In her palace she can give them luxuries to 
which they have been accustomed. The very 
splendor of the place condones, in a measure, 
the false step of the victim. 
Moral rectitude will be lost amid sensual 
splendor. That is the wisdom of her art. 
Hardened men will whisper to her inmates 
in the chaste language of lovers. 
The game is as old as Egypt, but in this case 
is played by a new hand. 

Wallstein : — 

Listen, Thomas, you have no religion. 
You are a skeptic, without faith in anything. 
You have no God; you profess no creed. 
You never bend the knee in prayer; to you 
contrition is a stranger; you have never felt 
the glory of forgiveness. 

I pity your ignorance and your benighted soul. 
Therefore, I can forgive you for your criticism of 
my investment and the financial strength 
it will add to my holy church. 

276 



May: — 

I plead guilty, Wallstein, to your impeachment. 

It is true, I profess no religion save that 

broader faith which recognizes one Great Being 

Who rules all, 

Who plans all things 

Who knows all things — 

Some great Law, rather than a Being 

Which defies Fate and Chance 

and makes of us all what we are. 

I cannot subscribe to your narrow theology, 

Shot through and through by the voice of Eeason. 

To the one supreme God my soul owes allegiance. 

Yet I make no outward show, 

I have no ritual to guide me — 

Only my inner consciousness of right 

and duty to my fellowman. 
Wallestein : — 

I forgive your criticism, Thomas; 

Without religion to guide your steps 

and endow your mind with holiness 

You are to be pitied. 

My soul is safe in the sanctuary of the Lord. 

The acts I do for his church 

have the Master's hearty approval. 

I shall pray for you, Thomas, that the Lord 

may convert you and lead your groping soul 

into the pathway of right. 
May: — (Incensed at the Jew's presumption) 

Hush this cant, thou self-righteous bigot, 

Whose mind is as misguided as a 

south-sea storm and whose soul 

is as corrupt as the vilest part of hell ! 
I thought to argue against the loan, 
but my words fall on hardened stone. 
You will have your way; advice is useless. 
But listen! 

277 



I had an incentive when I tried 
to persuade you from loaning 
Your money to a house of sin. 
Listen : — and by the eternals that be 
let my words have lodgement 
in the better part of your soul ! 

I have a sister whom some pious wretch 

has led astray. 

A divinity student has ruined her life. 

Reared in luxury, she loves luxury, 

the refined and beautiful things of life. 

To her I was devoted, but she, a woman, 

fell to the faithless promise of a man — 

Not a man, but a brute, 

for whose blood I hunger. 
Be warned, Nathan, if I find her 
in the house you have financed — 
Attracted there by its splendor and its ease, 
and luxurious surroundings — 
I will kill you on sight, 
just the same as I will kill the wretch 
Who brought her there." 



With these words the younger man passes. The Jew 
was left standing in fearful surprise. Once he mo- 
tioned the young man to return, but he had already 
turned out of the park and presently vanished from 
sight. Wallstein stood alone, the picture of indecision. 
Then starting forward he said to himself: — 

"The loan is made, — the interest has been paid, — 
the loan will stand." 



278 



THE MASKED HOUSE 

I paint my face in the dusky light 

Then sit me down and wait: 

For I know the brutes, called man, tonight, 

Will find the road to my gate. 

It stood where the crowds passed daily in an end- 
less procession, yet few ever knew anything of its 
character, or anything about its inmates. By a shrewd 
arrangement its main entrance was from another build- 
ing, so that few were ever seen going in through its 
front door. Yet it was a marked house to those who 
knew — a house in which souls die — where youth is 
robbed of its freshness and beauty — where exhilaration 
gives place to dejection — a house whose walls echoed 
alike the laughter of the gay and the sobs of those in 
abject despair. It was a house of strange awakenings, in 
which the dreamer often found the dawn the revealer 
of a heart heavy with contrition and filled with a long- 
ing to utter a prayer — strange as this might seem 
where revelry and sin held sway. 

Outside there were no marks of the unusual. It 
might have been, so far as appearances went, the home 
of an ideal family — or even the home of one who 
preached the gospel of Christ. But inside, from the 
heavy carpeted hallway on — all the marks of luxury 
were in evidence. One trod upon carpets so deep that 
no sound of step was heard. Silken curtains hung 
about every doorway and window. Rich tapestries 
adorned every hall, soft lights every corner, and whis- 
pered music swept softly through every room and ingle- 
nook. The inmates moved about with measured tread 
— refined voices whispered in every part of the interior 
and when laughter was heard it came from lips upon 

279 



which mute fingers were laid. It might have served 
as a kingly palace — save that a mysterious silence 
marked it with an air of suspicion. It was a house of 
sin — the scarlet innermost place where the guilty met, 
with a full consciousness of all their sin about them. 

It was in this house that Thomas May thought his 
sister, Ethel May, found refuge after the young divin- 
ity student, Edward Grafton, had spoiled her life, but 
in this he was mistaken. She came of wealthy parents 
and grew up in the arms of luxury, without proper 
parental care thrown about her. Chance had brought 
her in company with Grafton and he, in an unguarded 
hour, with the urge of evil through heredity, had left 
her stranded where no help could reach her. She was 
too proud to face her family in disgrace. A single 
step, brought on by inherited impulse she could not 
resist, had ruined her life — and having a small fortune 
of her own the girl disappeared in the great city and 
her brother, as a natural result, believed she had 
chosen the primrose path of sin. 

For months, Thomas May had searched for his sis- 
ter with untiring effort. He knew the house the Phar- 
isee had helped to finance and somehow the young 
man had the premonition that if his sister had really 
gone to the bad he would find her in a place like this. 
He knew the young student slightly, who had ruined 
his sister, believed that he visited the "Marked House" 
at rare intervals and for this reason his faith had been 
all the more shaken and he swore afresh a determi- 
nation to find the hypocrite and kill the destroyer of 
his own happiness. 

Late one night he entered the house through the 
inside door. Within, all was still, except the murmur 
of a few voices, talking in subdued tones. The maid 
who opened the door asked whom he would see, but 
the young man pushed her aside and entered a small 
reception room on the left of the entrance. He saw 
a young woman on the stairway, and in the excitement 

280 



of the moment he imagined it was his sister, but in 
this he was mistaken. Before he could collect his 
senses the girl had escaped through the front door. 
But just as he drew the heavy curtain aside he stood 
face to face with the Jew, whose money had made all 
of this splendor possible. The revelations came so 
rapidly, one after the other, that all sense of prudence 
was lost. A wild delirium of anger seized him. For 
the moment there was but one thought surging through 
his brain — that of retribution. All at once he turned 
and looked the Jew full in the face, who was shaking 
with sudden fright. Wallstein saw his doom in the 
young man's gaze. There was no mistaking that look. 
The eyes burned with anger and the lips curled, as if 
he would tell the joy which had now rewarded his 
long search for confirmation of his suspicion. There 
was no time for parley — the Jew was helpless from 
fright and made no attempt to escape. Suddenly he 
threw up his hands and exclaimed: 

"Thomas, be merciful to me. I am unarmed and 
helpless. For God's sake spare my life." 

Young May was too much overcome with all that had 
happened in one minute and for a moment looked upon 
the Jew with all the disdain of which his strong na- 
ture was capable. 

He seized the man with his left hand, now doubly 
strong from the emotion which shook his whole body 
like a leaf, and looking into his half hidden face he 
said : — 

"Kneel, thou dog ! For once kneel with contrition in 
your soul. Heretofore you have bent the knee as a 
hypocrite — kneel now as a penitent and for once ask 
your God for forgiveness. It is too late now, however. 
Too long have you lived your double life — too long 
you have worshipped your sordid money — little good 
will your prayers avail you now. Look about this 
palace of sin which your money has made beautiful. 
Look at these silken curtains that have lured the un- 

281 



fortunates and think, before you die, what you have 
done. At least you shall die among the evidences of 
wealth — this shall be your only compensation. Your 
make-believe creed of giving to your church — your 
"holier-than-thou" religion, will avail you naught in 
that far country whither you are about to journey. 

The Jew attempted to speak, but anger so engrossed 
every fibre of the young man that he pressed the 
crouching body still closer to the carpeted floor as he 
uttered : — 

"Let your last thought be of a beautiful soul for- 
ever blackened — not directly by your hands — for there 
is also another with whom there is to be a reckoning 
— but your money created this palace of sin and you 
are a partner in every crime which has been committed 
within these walls. Think not you can escape the 
punishment which is your due. Hell is full of pious 
criminals and you will be the next to answer the 
Devil's roll-call." 

A muffled shot echoed through the rooms — the Jew 
lay prostrate on the floor and Thomas May left by a 
side entrance, self -justified with the rash step he had 
taken. 



282 



THE CURSE OF HEEEDITY 

A typical student's room, in the furnishing of which 
the hand of wealth had taken part. A heavy mahog- 
any table in the center, with a polished lamp hanging 
just above, shedding a softened light on the books and 
an unfinished manuscript, which the occupant of the 
room had been reading. There were easy chairs scat- 
tered about, the several couches piled high with silken 
cushions. Reference books lay about the room, some 
half open and others with turned down leaves to mark 
some important reference page. 

There was the smell of Turkish tobacco in the air 
and through the window facing west a light breeze was 
blowing the silken curtains inward. Standing by this 
window was a young man of not over twenty-four, 
strong, well built, vigorous looking, but with all the 
lines of worry and discontent imprinted upon his fea- 
tures. The hour was eleven at night, when the city's 
night-life was at its meridian. Theatres had turned 
upon the streets their great crowds of pleasure seekers 
and every side-walk was filled with its moving stream 
of humanity — some homeward bound and others in 
search of still further amusement. 

Looking down upon this picture of mighty mystery 
Edward Grafton soliloquized: — 

"There boils the melting pot of human aims and 
human ambitions. The tide flows like the troubled 
waters of a storm- aroused surf upon some whitened 
beach. There go the quickened steps of the happy and, 
alike, the doubtful tread of the disappointed. The in- 
dividual overflowing with gladness elbows his neigh- 
bor in the depths of despair. Fate draws no lines be- 
tween them, they walk the same pavement, outwardly 
alike in happiness, yet one exults in exhilaration of old 

283 



wine, while the other carries a dagger in his heart. 
Two hours hence and the procession will have ended 
— one gone to a couch of happy dreams, the other to a 
night of restlessness where sleep refuses to bring for- 
getfulness of a sorrow gnawing at the soul. "Go on, 
and leave me alone with my problems unsolved" — but 
just then there was a knock at the student's door and 
he turned around in surprise, wondering who could 
call at that late hour. 

As the door opened Frank Malone stood in the en- 
trance hall — a youth about the same age — but with a 
smile upon his face, which contrasted strongly with 
the troubled expression of his host. 

"Don't be surprised, Edward," said the caller, "I 
was lonesome and dropped in for a little chat before 
going to my work over in the Herald office. I was 
just wanting to see you — not for any particular reason 
— and hope I have not intruded upon any urgent work 
you may have in hand." 

As Grafton heartily welcomed his caller a forced 
smile lit up his face. "No apology needed, my dear 
boy. I was just looking upon that long procession 
upon the great white way and trying to read in the 
faces of those who pass the thoughts and feelings that 
stirred their hearts. I only wish I could show upon my 
own face the steady happiness which shows in yours 
and which I'm sure comes from a contented soul." 

"I'm not so happy as you may think," replied his 
caller, "but in a way I am content. My task is not an 
easy one and my prospects in life not so glowing, but 
I love my work and that, in a measure, satisfies. Mine 
is an uphill pull. I've started life with no one to help 
me. No one has ever helped me. In my college 
course I incurred a heavy debt, which I've just finished 
paying off. Now it seems I must pull along, until I 
get upon my feet and make my way in the literary 
world. But the biggest thing for me is my love for 
my work. I'm a student and will always be one. That 

284 



compensates for the needs I feel and some day, I hope, 
at least, I shall earn a compensation that will enable 
me to follow literature as a profession and make of it 
a success. Until then I must be patient and abide the 
decrees of fate." 

"Ah, my dear Frank, don't mention Fate. That has 
been my curse. That has cast a blur over my career 
when life should hold for me all that is best and hap- 
piest. Call it Fate, or what you please, but it has been 
my own undoing." 

Then turning to his friend Edward Grafton said : — 

"Will you object my making a confession to you? 
— A thing which has long been on my mind? It's a 
sordid story — a story in which heredity plays a part, 
but I shall feel ever so much better when I have un- 
burdened my heart to one who loves me, as I know 
you do." 

And with a look of surprise in his face Frank Ma- 
lone bade him proceed, as he lit a cigar and threw him- 
self into an easy chair to listen. 

"Frank, as you know, I was reared in an atmosphere 
of luxury. My father was blessed or cursed, as you 
choose, with a vast amount of inherited wealth. Along 
with great wealth he inherited a train of evil tenden- 
cies from a long line of wealthy southern planters. 
My great, great grandfather was a famous owner 
of wonderful race horses, so my grandfather and 
his father. Along with the racing instinct came 
other gambling tendencies, drinking, inordinate love 
of beautiful women and the like. When I reached 
the age of eighteen I fully realized what a handicap of 
evil inclinations I had to fight against. That incli- 
nation to evil was a heritage which I could not over- 
come. It followed me incessantly. It was like my 
shadow. It never left me. 

"At first I thought to overcome it and school my- 
self so as to make it a negative part of my nature, but 
that was impossible. 

285 



"I took up the study of theology two years ago, 
not that I loved it, cared for it in any way, but in the 
belief that by following that study I would overcome 
my inborn inclination to evil. I studied, prayed and 
wept, but all in vain. The inheritance was there — 
fixed in my soul. For a while I would go straight and 
old desires would lie dormant. But all of a sudden 
the smouldering flame would rekindle and flare up — 
burning with ever increasing intensity. 

"Under one of these spells — when I was powerless 
to control my inclination — a beautiful girl was ruined. 
In disgrace she slipped out of my life and away from 
her friends. I offered to marry her and right the 
wrong — but she would not listen to that and since 
then no one has heard of her. I have paid the penalty 
of my sin a thousand times. I've suffered almost be- 
yond human endurance. The thing has engrossed my 
entire mind and I know where to fix the blame. But 
for the curse of inherited inclination to evil this thing 
would never have happened. My nature could not be 
changed and I am undone — henceforth my life is 
ruined. Heredity is the curse that has wrecked my 
life and hers." 

"That's a terrible arraignment of yourself," said 
Malone, "but your confession has the virtue of honesty. 
What are you going to do?" 

"Going to do? Nothing. What can I do? I am 
honest with myself, Frank, and I've played my last 
card. When Ethel May, that's her name in all confi- 
dence, refused my offer of marriage, then my last 
bridge was burned. She confessed to me that she was 
likewise cursed with an uncontrollable inclination to 
sin. She told me of a long line of ancestors whose 
lives had been clouded with evil, but their wealth and 
social standing had, in a way, kept them from outward 
disgrace. She would prefer to carry the consequences 
of her disgrace rather than attempt a show of refor- 
mation, which she felt would be a dismal failure. 

286 



"By entering the church I had thought to counter- 
act my evil tendencies. But this step, bold as it has 
been, has not changed me in the least. The old, inborn 
inclinations are all still with me. I have reached the 
dreadful conclusion that inheritance carries with it the 
enduring mark of eternity. Once thus marked, one 
forever carries the unchanging spots. A leopard once, 
a leopard always. 

"In my despair I have reached a desperate conclu- 
sion : I shall convert my property into cash and delib- 
erately go into some far country and live, in reality, 
the life of a prodigal. I shall let every evil inclination 
have full sway. I shall follow the lure of an evil soul. 
I shall follow the beckon of sin, no matter what form 
it takes. When I have spent my last penny and for 
a while eaten of the husks, perhaps over-self indulgence 
will bring a change of heart. It is a desperate step to 
take, but the die is cast and I shall go." 



And as the two men left the room together there was 
a strange look upon their faces. Few words were 
spoken and they went out into the crowded thorough- 
fare, each with a new intent within his heart and a per- 
plexing future before them. 



287 



IN A FAR COUNTRY 



Ten years had elapsed — ten years in the old world's 
busy age, which seemed but a day in the slow tread of 
Time. Big nations had become bigger, great powers 
had become more powerful, kings had lost their thrones 
and new forces in the world's political life had arisen 
on the sky of the ages. The old Pyramids still looked 
silently upon the sandy desert, great ships ploughed 
every sea, poverty stricken families had arisen to great 
wealth and destiny played with men and nations, as a 
child idles away time with its toys. The same stars 
sailed the blue of heaven at night, the same dawns and 
twilights glorified the passing days; spring and au- 
tumn marked the hurrying seasons, while Fate with 
a smileless expression looked on and marvelled the 
listless passing of the years. 

It was a blustery night in Havana. The early 
September gales had changed the usually calm bay in- 
to a seething turmoil of twisting and wild waves. 
Down along the Malecon the sea wall was unable to 
hold back the mass of water, which at intervals swept 
over the concrete embankment and flooded the space 
to its furthest side. That beautiful street with its 
wonderful trees and flickering lights was crowded 
with people watching the weird play of the waters, 
which dashed over the ramparts like something en- 
raged. 

Among the mixed crowd of watchers was Edward 
Grafton. After ten years, drifting from one part of 
the world to the other, he had finally come to Havana 
and for six months had been living at the famous old 
Ingleterra Hotel. Reticent in nature, strange in hab- 
its and peculiar in temper — Edward Grafton had made 

288 



but few friends. Strange as it seemed to him, after 
he began life as the prodigal he had not become the 
spendthrift he expected to be. Neither had he de- 
veloped into a lover of evil which he contemplated 
would become a fixed habit. For this reason, while he 
had denied himself no indulgence during these event- 
ful years, he found that he still had a substantial for- 
tune left. London, Paris, Berlin, the Eeviera, old 
Egypt, India and Japan had all taken a part of his 
income, but there was still a large share of the prin- 
cipal yet untouched. 

As he was leaving the Malecon for his hotel a heavily 
veiled woman approached him and in a soft, cultivated 
voice said : — 

"Excuse me, sir, but I am hungry and you will do 
an act of mercy if you will help an unfortunate with 
the price of a dinner." 

This was nothing new to Grafton and he was about 
to hand the woman a piece of money when something 
in the tone of her voice caused him to draw it back. 
Then, too, he was lonesome, had not yet had his own 
dinner, and in a rather nonchalant manner he re- 
plied : — 

"I am sorry for any one who is hungry and without 
the price of a meal. Of course I could not refuse. But 
you do not look like one who is poor. Your clothes 
bespeak prosperity and your voice has the tone of one 
who has known the best life has to offer." 

"That is true, sir," the woman responded, "but just 
at this time nothing stands between me and actual 
want. It is true I have known better days — but that 
will not help when one needs food to tide over until 
to-morrow." 

"Then come with me to dinner," Grafton said. "I 
have the price, but I'm in want also, — in need of com- 
panionship — and you perhaps know that soul-hunger 
is often worse than physical." 

They went into a small dining room nearby — for 
289 






which Havana is famous — and soon the two were en- 
joying a most delicious dinner. 

It was a strange meeting. The man had changed but 
little during the ten years, but Ethel May had "paid 
in full." The woman usually gets the worst of the 
Devil's game. In spite of the changes which Time had 
wrought on her beautiful face Grafton soon recognized 
her, but kept this knowledge to himself. He had 
grown a full beard and wore heavy dark glasses so 
that the woman did not suspect, in the least, who he 
was. As soon as he noticed that he was not recognized 
he used every effort to shield his identity from his com- 
panion. 

II 

Strange to say, since their parting they had lived 
entirely different lives. The man had given way to 
every wild impulse of prodigal living while the woman 
had by almost super-human effort walked the narrow 
path of purity since her first false step. At the time 
that step was taken she was the most beautiful woman 
in the select set in which she moved. Fortunately for 
her she had come into possession of her inheritance 
from her father's estate and was financially independ- 
ent. When misfortune overtook her she went to a 
city in the west and while she did not need to work, 
she took up nursing as a profession. Under an as- 
sumed name she had remained there, happy, in a way, 
in trying to be kind to others. 

Then a sudden impulse to do something unusual 
came upon her — the spirit of adventure, inherited from 
an erratic father, took possession of her whole being. 
She went to Havana, taking a letter of credit for a 
considerable part of her money and had been there only 
a short time when the Ethel May of ten years before 
asserted herself again. She found herself the same 
uncontrollable person — filled with the spirit of adven- 
ture and a wild desire of money-making. It seemed to 

290 



her that she was absolutely helpless. During the past 
ten years the spirit of content seemed to have ruled her 
— for she worked away at nursing with no special de- 
sire for anything else. 

This new influence came upon her like a terrible 
thirst. It impelled, commanded and moved her. 
Under its spell she was helpless. It arose in her like a 
demon and drove her against every natural wish. 

Somehow this new desire took the form of specula- 
tion and a few days after her arrival she found her- 
self buying chances in every lottery enterprise in the 
city. She remembered then that this had been one of 
the outstanding vices of her father. He played every 
game of chance and fortunately for his family with 
unfailing success. 

For a while her investments were profitable. Money 
came easy. Then all of a sudden the goddess of chance 
frowned. She lost day after day. Her letter of credit 
was running low. Suddenly in the same spirit of 
"risk" she staked her all on a big drawing and lost 
every penny. It was this which brought her down to 
the humiliating position of asking for a dinner, while 
she waited for a long delayed draft to be paid. She 
was in a city where everyone to her was a stranger, 
and to ask for help was her only recourse. 

Ill 

It was an unusual dinner party. These two drift- 
ers, after ten years, were face to face again. There 
was something pathetic in the meeting and when Graf- 
ton realized who his guest was, he made every effort 
to have the little dinner as near perfect as possible. 
There was the cocktail, which helped start a line of 
friendly talk, then followed the dishes in a faultless 
course, choice old wines being served with each. 

The woman remained unconscious as to the identity 
of her host, but marvelled at his generosity towards a 
stranger. To be forced to make such a request was 

291 



the most humiliating event in her life, yet she was 
treated with so much consideration that this was soon 
forgotten. Every part of the table talk was so chaste 
and guarded that she might have been dining with her 
nearest friend. 

In fact there was a reason for this. No sooner had 
Grafton recognized Ethel May in his guest than a 
strange feeling came over him, which he could not 
account for. During all the years of his wayward 
life this modern prodigal son had been more or less a 
woman hater. Losing faith in himself, he had lost 
faith in all women. But when he looked into the eyes 
of Ethel May on that blustery September night, he be- 
came a changed man. Perhaps it was the remnant of 
an old love that had lain dormant for all these years, 
or it may have been a deep rooted sympathy for the 
woman he had wronged. No matter, however, what 
was back of it, Grafton at once realized that his prod- 
igal days were ended and that henceforth a new chap- 
ter would be written into his life. As he listened to 
her gentle words and looked into the face, now grown 
so wistful through suffering, a new power rose up in 
his soul, a new determination took possession of him. 
His past became a hopeless desert of waste and he won- 
dered how he could have the heart to live, as he had, 
the best years of his youth in such an aimless manner. 

As a matter of fact an overwhelming love for the 
woman he had wronged took possession of the man. 
This became the most intensely interesting hour in his 
whole life. All the years he had wasted as a spend- 
thrift, playing with every form of pleasure and dis- 
sipation that came his way, now meant nothing to this 
hardened man of the world. Every word that fell from 
her lips became a symphony of rare music. At last he 
was face to face with the only thing which could make 
him happy. Thousands of miles of dissolute wander- 
ing had brought him finally to his ingle-nook of con- 
tentment. As soft lights fell upon her worn face he 

292 



saw there the fixedness of his destiny. He must now 
liquidate his indebtedness to life and to this one woman 
— provided she would allow him to do so. After all, 
chance had been kind in bringing him to this island of 
tropical beauty. 

Every moment was fraught with intensity. His 
thoughts and conclusions flew thick and fast. No 
matter what Ethel May had been since the last time he 
saw her — what remained of her future should be his 
— if she would permit. It would make no difference 
to him how low she had fallen — her sins might be as 
scarlet — her career might have been even worse than 
his — none of this would play any part with his future, 
so far as he was concerned — she must be his, if that 
were possible. 

IV 

Finally the little dinner ended. Mellowed by the 
choice old wine, which was part of the meal, these two 
strange characters talked freely. After the last sip of 
demi tasse Grafton looked at her somewhat flushed 
face and said: — 

"This has been the most delightful hour I have 
known for years and I'm sorry the little meal is over." 

She looked at him surprised. Was there something 
familiar in his voice ? Somehow a strange film seemed 
to come over her eyes. In the moment of silence which 
followed the shadows of a dead past seemed to cross 
her vision. Quickly her thoughts went backward and 
she was somehow linking this stranger with the only 
man she had ever loved — the man she had loved so well 
that she had refused to marry him, because, by doing 
so she feared his life's happiness would be ruined. 

But this train of thought came to an abrupt ending 
when, still holding her hand, Edward Grafton said : — 

"Ethel, is it possible you do not know me? Have 
the years been so cruel that you do not recognize the 

293 



man who ruined your life — your own bright girlhood, 
and in so doing, likewise ruined his own?" 

She drew back for a moment, disengaged her hand 
he was holding and tried to leave the little room. 

Her pride was hurt, even after all the knocks a 
heartless world had given her; and she made every 
effort to escape before Grafton realized how earnest 
she was. But he was even more determined : — During 
their hour together he had cast the die for his future 
and leaning close to her face he whispered:— 

"No, you shall not escape this time. It is all very 
clear to me now why you refused to let me right my 
wrong done you ten years ago. During the last hour 
I have lived more than all the balance of my life com- 
bined. For the first time I have really learned what 
love is. It came over me with such an overwhelming 
force that all else in life seems of little value. It has 
swept away all my old theories and set up new stand- 
ards in their place. We have suffered alike — our cup 
of misfortune has been full and we have tasted the last 
drop. Do not refuse me the one thing that will save 
me from further ruin. I have enough left of a half 
squandered fortune for us to start life anew. You can 
make or ruin me as you choose. Do not refuse." 

V 

In a moment she recognized who her generous host 
was. It came to her in a peculiar lisp of his voice. 
Then, in a soft tone she said: — 

"We cannot talk here; let's go out into the little 
park in front." 

Outside they found that the storm had blown away 
and the Cuban moonlight flooded the tropical vegeta- 
tion. The palm trees glistened like sheets of silver 
against the star-studded sky. Nature was as soothed 
again as were these two once restless hearts. 

Sitting alone and apart she told him the story of her 
dreary past. There was no upbraiding — no fault to 

294 



find with him — only gratitude for his kindness to her. 

And later as they walked through the little park, 
on the way to her apartments, the invisible figure of 
Love followed the footsteps of these strange prodigals, 
who had started life anew on the highway of happiness. 

A few days afterwards the little steamer, Mascot, 
rounded the Morro castle headland, out of Havana 
harbor. On the after deck stood bride and groom, 
watching the fading outlines of the ancient city, its 
spires, steeples and mass of low constructed buildings, 
with a background of cocoanut trees and royal palms. 
And as the turrets of the old castle faded from view 
in the distance, each felt that they were leaving for- 
ever their old life with its heart-aches and deception 
and entering a new career as calm and placid as the 
still waters of the gulf over which they sailed. 



295 



INDEX 



Absent Faces, The 208 

Ah ! Bitter Fate 190 

After— 1916 188 

After Many Years, Story 273 

An Autumn Mood 95 

Anemone 128 

April Clouds 101 

April Eain 101 

At the Gate of Dreams . . 207 
At the Point of the 

Cape 94 

Bar of Song, A 31 

Beauty and Soul 167 

Because He Carried Love 

Within His Heart 15 
Because I Walk With 

You 35 

Beside The Congaree . . . 160 
Beyond the Keach of 

Pride, Story 216 

Broken Idols 145 

But These Bemain . 43 

Call for the Blood of 

Jesus 49 

Call of the Sea, The 58 

Call of the Woods 110 

Carolina Garden, A 158 

Closed Door, The 28 

Coast of Destiny, The . . 161 

Come Walk With Me 129 

Crimson Poppy 31 

Daisies 114 

Dancer, The 44 

Daughters of Eve 183 

Day and Night 14 

Daybreak Ill 



Day on the Farm Once 

More, A 203 

Dear Heart of Yester- 
day 50 

Dear Stars, I Envy 

You 35 

Denial, The 177 

Dogwood and Jasmine . . 21 

Dreams of Childhood ... 179 

Dreams of Yesterday . . . 140 

Dreams of You 14 

Earth's Saddest Mght . . 152 

Egypt 196 

Enchanted Koad, The ... 139 

First Love 40 

Friendly Shores 63 

Florida Shores 57 

Flowers of Yesterday ... 22 

For Love's Beturning ... 15 

For Your Birthday 18 

For You 34 

Gasparilla's Way 71 

Gate, The 20 

Gates of Twilight 169 

God Grant the Years 

Go Slow 154 

God Has Been Good 125 

Gray Dawn 197 

Guilt 157 

Guilty Sea 64 

Gypsy Creed 168 

Hagar's Farewell 19 

Has Gone the Silent 

Way 133 

Have You Heard the 

South A-Calling? ... 90 

Hypocrisy 198 



297 



If You But Knew 

Inheritance 

In Bob White Days 

In Some Sad Hour 

In the Desert 

Just Blooming for You 

Land of "Somewhere" . 

Legacies 

Life 

Little Stranger, A 

Live Oak, The , 

Loom, The 

Lot's Wife 

Love is the Same 

Love's Captivity 

Love's Little World .... 

Love Me Today , 

Love's Mystery 

Love Stands at the 

Door 

Magdalene, Poem 

Magdalene, Story 

Master in the Garden, 

The 

Master Painter, The 

Morning 

My Silent Guest 

My Song and I 

Mystery of the Waves . . . 

Night 

Night in the Tropics 

Novice, The 

Nun, The 

O ! Pioneers 

O Poet, Sing 

O Kestless Sea 

Old Ships 

Old South Farm, The 

On the Koad to Sleepy- 
Town 



51 Our House of Dreams . . 36 
189 Our Mocking Bird 96 

Palace in the Pines, A . . 38 

209 Path, The 27 

174 

Pilgrim and Cavalier... 191 

-« Pines of Lexington, 

The 126 

108 Pioneers, The 199 

134 Prayer 155 

34 Prayer, A 134 

194 Primrose 103 

88 

Eecompense of Fate, 

171 The 198 

178 Koad to Enoree 29 

47 

Romance and Golf 41 

33 Eosabelle 143 

23 Bosalind 133 

51 Eose of My Garden 16 

33 

Eubaiyat and You 13 

42 Sargasso 73 

Sea Mysteries 68 

137 Serenade, The 27 

253 Sight of You, The 47 

Silent Gods 115 

162 Since Dinah Went 

117 Away 159 

195 Soldiers of Freedom 186 

141 Song in the Night, A ... 135 

9 Song for You, A 28 

55 Song — My Caroline, A . . 45 

Song of Scarlet, A 204 

120 Song of the Sea, A 59 

105 Song of the Wind 55 

17 Springtime in Carolina 99 

37 Summer Clouds 89 

Sunset 91 

208 

176 Tall Pines 87 

68 Then and Now 209 

55 Thrush, The 118 

115 To A Little Child 182 

To An Old Cypress 104 

180 To Dorothy— Eighteen . . 170 

298 



To Harriet Shelly 113 

Tomorrow's Task 123 

To One Sixteen 181 

To Sidney Lanier 185 

To the, Old North 

State 97 

Time's Dateless Years . . 203 
Trail of Inheritance, 

The 173 

Twilight Hymn, A 142 

Twilight on the Marsh . . 65 

Tyranny of Law, The ... 192 

Unblessed, The 176 

Vendor of Dreams, A . . . 169 

War 195 

Way Down in Caroline . . 12 

We Grow Not Old 11 

What the Mandolin 

Said 24 

When Daylight Breaks . . 49 



When Good St. Paul 

Went Home 210 

When Leida Passes By . . 39 
When Love Departed .... 20 
Where Love is King .... 43 
When Love Was Young . . 46 
When Shall We Meet . . 13 
When You Used to 

Sing 21 

Who Plants A Tree 193 

Wind, The 121 

Winter Wind, The 102 

Wisdom and Love 48 

With You, Where You 

Are 16 

Woman 175 

Worshipper, The 163 

Yellow Jasmine 106 

Your Absence 10 

Youth and Age 170 

Yuletide and You 25 



299 



COLLECTED POEMS 



By Henky E. Hakman. 



In "Collected Poems" appears all the new songs by Mr. Harman, 
since his last book was issued some sis years ago ; also all of 
the best poems contained in his previously published volumes under 
these titles : 

In Peaceful "Valley Gates of Twilight 

At the Gate of Dreams A Bar of Song 

In Love's Domain Tuletide and You 

Dreams of Yesterday Songs of Florida Shores. 

Every edition of Mr. Harman's books, as above listed, is now 
sold out and both old and new admirers of his poetry will be 
glad to have this new book. In it he has allowed a place for only 
his finest work. It is a volume of poetry which every lover of 
the artistic and beautiful will appreciate. It breathes the spirit of 
refined sentiment on every page, beams with the atmosphere of 
uplift, while every poem carries a beautiful thought to the reader's 
heart. 

It is a pleasure, therefore, to announce this new volume by Mr. 
Harman, in the production of which no expense has been spared. 
These "Collected Poems" will add new laurels to the author's 
reputation as the writer of exquisite verse. 



PUBLISHER'S NOTE 

Mr. Harman's books have, perhaps, a larger clientele of apprecia- 
tive readers than any living Southern poet has ever enjoyed. The 
first edition of "Collected Poems" and "The "Window of Souls" has 
been largely sold and to make sure of a copy, orders should be sent 
at once. The price is $2.00 per copy postage paid. 

Send orders either direct to the publishers or through your local 
book seller. 

THE STATE COMPANY, 
Publishers and Distributors, 
Columbia, S. C. 



THE WINDOW OF SOULS 



THREE STORIES INCLUDED IN THE VOLUME OF 
"COLLECTED POEMS." 



Real character can only be understood when seen through the 
window of one's soul. People walk through life from youth to old 
age, covered by a thin veneer of pretence and pass to honored graves. 

The world is flooded with books, dealing in cheap society charac- 
ters, silly conversation and people who know little and feel less. 
To paint life as it is characters must feel deeply and act from im- 
pulse — those who have gone into the depths and suffered. And to see 
them as they are we must view them through the windows of their 
souls. 

This is the age of intolerance. Society shuns the unfortunate, 
our courts send them to wear prison stripes ; neither considers the 
fact that we inherit all the weaknesses of our parents. 

Modern society has forgotten the fact that the Master pardoned 
the scarlet woman, cried out against hypocrisy and told the thief 
on the cross : "This day thou shalt be with me in paradise." 

In the following stories we look through the window of souls at 
each individual and see the powerful influence which Heredity 
exerts in the formation of character. Old as the subject is it is the 
most interesting question under discussion today. Characters are 
made or lost through the price of blood, no matter what part educa- 
tion and environment may have played in the life of the individual. 

If civilization does anything for human uplift it should teach us 
the spirit of mercy toward the unfortunate. Yet, in spite of this, 
Shylock clamors more violently today for his pound of flesh than 
ever before in the world's history. 

That those who read these stories will finish them with more 
charity in their souls is the sincere wish of the author. 



^**~^ j jj. 



REVIEW OF MR. HARMAN'S LITERARY 

WORK 



(From The Boston Transcript.) 

I found in Mr. Harman's poetry, not an echo, but a feeling for 
nature, a spiritual passion, though it concerns itself with the hum- 
bler things of life, that makes the glow in the art of Sidney Lanier. 
There is much of that poignant personal utterance common in both 
poets, the difference being that in Lanier the soul searches through- 
out the infinite for the divine manifestations of peace and beauty, 
while in Harman the soul is content to find in common experiences 
close at hand the same divine manifestations of peace and beauty. 

This more serious thoughtfulness that I have indicated does not 
necessarily mean that it is the most significant part of Mr. Har- 
man's art. He loves Nature as I have shown, with a passion for 
her forms and colors, her changing aspects of seasons, for her 
manifestations of character in places with which his life has been 
associated. He does something more than use her profuse loveliness 
to decorate a pretty rhyme ; he finds in her symbols of deeper 
things, of the spirit, and of influences which touched the heart of 
humanity. But he brings another message to his readers in these 
poems, such a message as is the essential mood and substance in 
the art of such poets as Longfellow and James Whitcomb Riley and 
Eugene Field. It has its plentiful sprinklings of pathos and tender- 
ness and brooding music, but it is the wholesomeness, the ideal of 
aspiring faith, that gives to his songs their heartening and irresisti- 
ble appeal. The poet does not vex his readers with any symbol of 
philosophy, but the essence of a philosophy imbues all he sings 
with a conspicuous and easy grace. 

Yet this quality is only a pathway in Mr. Harman's poetry to the 
crowning heights of his muse where dwells the god to whom his 
melodies and dreams become an oblation. Love is that god, but the 
poet does not conceive him as the popular and irrelevant idol of a 
light-hearted fancy. He becomes the master-passion of the human 
heart; of which the sentiment that compels man to worship woman, 
and woman to glorify the worship by acceptance, and for which 
she exchanges in equal measure her devotion, is but a part, though 
it is the most beautiful and vital of this passion. This passion 
comes into all other human relationships as well, breathing its 
perfume of many sentiments, and quieting the emotions in the many 
moods of Mr. Harman's poetry. 

Poetry tbat has so much deep feeling, so many charming graces of 
expression, in which the rich and varied sentiments of common 
human experience are woven all through with the fragrance and 
mystery, the delightful companionship of nature, is certainly worthy 
of that wider admiration among poetry lovers which it is steadily 
winning. 



AN ESTIMATE FROM HOME PEOPLE 



"I want to send you my sincere thanks for the great service you 
have done me in sending me Mr. Harman's 'In Love's Domain.' My 
long absence from my native State has caused me to miss Mr. 
Harman's work, and it was a pleasure to find it so beautiful and 
true. It is not a mere versification that I find in this book, but 
poetry, literature and noble feeling cast in noble form. I hope you 
will present my compliments to Mr. Harman, and express to him 
my deep sense of pride in his work and appreciation of his thought- 
fulness." — President Edwin Alderman, University of Virginia. 

(Editorial from the Atlanta Journal.) 

Whoever prizes the gold of the sun and the green of the fields 
will find treasure aplenty in Mr. H. E. Harman's new poems. In a 
day when clever conceits and so-called new ideas are the fad in 
verse, it is refreshing to find a man who goes back to primal haunts 
and gives us a song with the old, red, warm blood running through 
it. Poetry is as old as the stars, and like the stars, too, it is for- 
ever young. It links all our yesterdays with all our to-morrows. It 
is the savor of old wine, the glow of old wood on the hearthstone, 
the wisdom of old books, the cheer of old friends. 

Such are the themes of Mr. Harman's songs. He tells us again 
out of his own heart, and simply, of the things that have always and 
always will mean much to mankind. 

(From The Atlanta Constitution.) 

Signal literary recognition has come to Henry E. Harman, a well- 
known citizen and capitalist of Atlanta, in an extended and favor- 
able review recently given Mr. Harman's poetical selections by no 
less critical authority than The Boston (Mass.) Transcript. The 
Constitution reproduces portions of The Transcript's appreciation, 
though the entire review extends over two columns. 

The Transcript is foremost among American newspapers in its lit- 
erary standards. To the culture of Boston, it adds exacting tradi- 
tions and ideals of its own. The imprimature of its approval means 
that a writer has "arrived" in a sense truly national. And it is as 
a national poet, nation-wide in vision and horizon, that The Trans- 
cript acclaims the Atlanta man. 

It is rare, in these days of materialism, that a poet sings with 
sufficient clearness to draw to him the eyes of the nation. That is 
what Mr. Harman has done. It is more notable, in that, like 
Edmund Clarence Stedman, the famous banker-litterateur of New 
York, he adds practical achievement to his remarkable gifts as a 
poet and a scholar. 



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